a piece of prose for a special someone

speckled with paint and littered with holes, your t-shirt hung off my body, too baggy and dirty to be worn for any occasion other than a coffee and cigarettes morning spent in bed with my lover.

your dimples were deeper than I remembered, but your smile was a pleasant consistency, and I found myself grateful for moments like this one-- warm and shivering, satisfied yet anxious for the day, and more than anything-- consciously aware of my beauty, regardless of the quality of frayed cloth covering my flesh. it smelled like you, and my skin was eager to soak up the scent of stale smoke, masculine deodorant, and sex.

then, when your rough, working-man hands slid beneath the cotton, caressing my sides and easing their way towards my breasts, I can remember that for the first time I didn’t want you to tear off my clothes and take me with no inhibitions-- I liked the look of my nipples beneath your clothing far too much… liked the way it seemed to mean that I belonged to no one else-- could never be another man’s prize.

but when you slipped it over my head, uncovering each feminine curve of my figure and planting soft, slow kisses on every inch of my body, I knew the look in your eyes said far more than a t-shirt ever could, and that you would never let me go.

deep in my core, I knew I would never wish for anything more than those moments-- would never again ache for anything the way I craved those coffee and cigarettes mornings-- dressed in your tattered tee, snuggled against your chest, content with the world we made together inside your bedroom walls.