He is light. It bathes your features when you stand pressed shoulder to shoulder.

You allow yourself the peace. (You were never good at denying yourself anything, least of all him).

You close your eyes and let this, him, rest beside you.

It sits like a quiet inhalation of smoke. (Your throat feels raw, but you can’t remember a time when it didn’t).

The chill in the air barely noticed as he is a veritable furnace beside you. (You use this as an excuse to press closer). His presence scalds, but you are used to the burn.

You inhale.

Exhale.

You cannot tell if the heartbeat you hear is yours or his; you do not want to be able to distinguish between the sounds.

He breathes beside you. He breathes.

If you blink, you think there will be sun spots dancing in front of your eyes.

You do not tell him this; he hates being compared to the sun.

But you think it as you watch him from the corner of your heavy, charcoal eyes.

You wonder if you kissed him, would it scour your tongue?

You look away. You do not see him watch you with equal care. He never understood art, but he thinks he does a little more every time he looks at you.

Your fingers find his.

Where they falter, his do not.

And you think,

He is light,

He is light,

He is light.