The sky is clear as we walk towards my car, parked lonely by the broken sidewalk. It smells like campfire. I step to avoid puddles, but my laces fall victim to mud and debris from the storm.
“Baby,” you say. You smile at my tired face. You don’t mind that our plans rearranged; I don’t mind that we’re miles from home on a damp Sunday morning.
You hurry forward and spin around, like you have something pressing to reveal. Your hand meets my cheek. The other tucks a strand of hair behind my ears as I stand, hunched.
“I love you.”
I taste your words. I close my eyes. You sink into me. The warmth of your mouth is like nothing else.
