There is a special place on his body and it is only here, in this reminder, that she can fall into that deep and peaceful slumber she loves so much.
It is always in the mornings when she realizes how she has found the intense quiet of sleep. Between his shoulder blades is the smooth, concave pillow in which her weary head fits. It is only when he faces left, his right arm draped lazily backwards over her thigh. It's as if he's pulling her along with him, into his dreams and yet, she hasn't experienced them.
And when the sun comes up, she sees it rise over his right shoulder, she can't help but smile inwardly knowing she can never speak on this, that it is not a feeling forced between friends. These are the moments between only the mind the heart, maybe the liver if it could understand in that way.
The scents - the lingering soap, the muted smell of old perfume, the dry smell of an unfamiliar blanket all make the scene its warmest.
It is the taste of the cracking raw daybreak, the black sensation of frost between teeth and the fuzz in the eyes, like stale eyeliner mixed with sweat and tears.
She can feel him breathe, his chest rising predictably and his heart thumping softly, rhythmically inside, because he is far away someplace while she looks at him through her weary, broken eyes.
Though in his visible slumber, he traces her with a finger as if in his dreams, she's always been along with him.
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