There are reasons as to why we stay in the Dark

I could never tell what scent he wore. The light scent that his warm skin let out when we lie tangled for too long always became lost within the scent of the plants he kept, cotton clothing, and the fresh bread from the baker on the corner of the street. His fingers, long and thin, rest at my waist. His black hair–which I know better than anyone is actually brown–frames his face in a mess that I just seem to always fall in love with more. Dark lashes rest against tan cheeks, ones that will open as soon as the baker begins to holler, "Fresh bread." And right at the thought, as the first rays of light disturb our peaceful rest, the words resonate through the streets and a smile plays on his lips.

"Do you ever get tired of staring at me?"

"Not in this life, and not in the next."

His lids part just enough for me to see a sliver of violet hue, and as the hand at my waist pulls me closer to the warmth of his body, my shoulder feels an ever-growing warmth, "It-

My opaque gaze stares at the page, a pen tapping the journal as I attempt to remember the next words. Vital words that seem to not want to let go of me.