To Emily and Andrea.
Two of my favorite poems.
This was inspired by both the song by the Avett Brothers "I and love and you" and a line from an Andrea Gibson poem "I Do"
Happy Valentine's Day (One Day Late)
I. And love. And you.
When she wakes, it's raining. Raining is a strong word. It's closer to sprinkling than raining. Just heavy enough to make soft sounds on the window panes, clouds forming a grey curtain over a surely shining sun. Beneath her, her pillow is breathing.
She's half on him and half on the mattress, but when she wakes, she situates herself right on top of his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso, pressing her ear to hear his heartbeat.
It's soft and steady, not unlike the rain .
It's comfortable and reassuring and familiar, not unlike the rain.
Water taps on the glass of the window.
His heart beats against the walls of his chest.
She raises her head, propping her chin so she can look up at his face. He sleeps soundly but lightly, and she likes watching him. She memorizes the shape of his lips and the shape of his closed eyes and the hard lines of his jaw and the curve of his nose.
She lifts on of the hands wrapped around his body and pushed his messy bangs out of his eyes, gently, smiling when his nose scrunched up.
She plants her upturned lips to his skin, peppering feather light kisses across the bare expanse of skin until his eyes fluttered open.
"Good morning," he greets, his voice quiet and gravely and tinted with the residue of sleep.
She hums in response, not stopping her ministrations. His hand moves from his side to her body, up her arm, across her bare shoulder, down her back, up her back, touches to her neck and where her hair begins on the back of her head.
His fingers weave their way into her brown locks and comb through them, easily. He does this again and again until he tugs, gently, forcing her to look up at him. The Tiffany blue of the bed sheets brings the blue in his eyes and they gaze into her green ones with what she can only define as adoration.
She moves up. Up. Up. She shimmies up until they are face to face. She smiles and nudges his nose with her own, playfully. He mirrors her grin, nudging her gently in retaliation, rubbing the morning scruff of his chin against her neck.
He briefly considers nipping at the skin there, but dismisses it, enjoying the languid pace they seem to be moving at. He plants a kiss on her neck, then snakes his tongue out to trace her ear. He takes the lobe in his mouth and she gasps, the hand she's placed on his shoulder digs into his skin.
It's her turn. She kisses his jaw, his cheek, his nose.
She hovers above him, still, her eyes raking over his facial features, slowly, before meeting his. At this point she's propped up with her arms extended on either side of him.
Again, she nudges his nose. Again. Again.
It pleases her immensely when he grows impatient and gives in first, lifting his head from the pillow to capture her lips with his own.
At first it's light- teasing, tasting, lips moving in a familiar dance. Her tongue darts out and in an instant the kiss is deepened. Exploring, meeting, tangling, consuming.
His hands move from her hips, where they steadied her, to her lower back and then upward. He wants to feel every inch of her under his fingertips.
A hand cups her chin and slides backwards, tangling in her hair. He pulls her away, grinning when she resists at first. They both need to breath.
"I love Mondays," he tells her, not moving the hands that hold her in place above him.
"You like Sundays better," she grins, moving her hips to remind him where they are. He bites his bottom lip and his eyes roll back the slightest bit.
"I love Sundays."
"We need to go to work," she tells him. Neither make a move to rise.
"Do you want to-"
"Yes."
"Are we going to-"
"No." He smiles for the hundredth time that morning alone, using the pad of his thumb to brush her cheek. She moves her face to nuzzle his hand, and the gesture is sweet. It's cozy and uncensored and affectionate. She kisses his palm.
"Kate," he begins, and she turns her attention from the palm of his hand to his eyes again.
"Yes?"
"I'm a writer." The words taste funny, like they are foreign but they aren't.
"Yes," she draws the syllable out.
"I'm generally good with words."
"I'll give you that," She hasn't caught on but she plays along anyways. Both of her arms are still extended on either side of his body, holding her weight, and she wants to lie back down- to rest on his chest and burrow into that spot where his neck and shoulders meet but the way his hand is holding her chin won't allow it.
Instead, his thumb moves from her cheek to her lips, running over them, lightly, tracing them. She sucks the very tip of his thumb into her mouth, playfully, smiling, enjoying their conversation, however confusing it was becoming.
"Big words, little words, nice words, funny words,"
"Yes," she agrees, releasing his thumb. It continues its journey.
"Pretty words, complex words, curse words-"
"-You're really good at those," he chuckles at her teasing.
"But there are words that I just haven't been able to say lately. To you. In a certain order."
"Are you talking about the words you just spoke now? Cause that came out a little choppy," she jokes, even though she knows what he's getting at. He silences her with his thumb once again on her lips.
"There are these three words that have become hard to say," her heart flutters. Actually. Flutters. "I." He pauses, to drive her mad, she's convinced. "And love," another brief pause. "And you."
He uses the hand he's been cradling her in to pull her to him and she lets him, her mouth meeting his.
Feeling, responding, speaking, understanding, loving.
He doesn't get her flowers because they remind her of funerals, and they don't go out on the town because they prefer privacy. She doesn't know it yet, but there is a sonnet on the bedside table entitled 'You Are My Favorite Poem' he has spent the last four weeks writing. She hasn't told him yet, because she's rather occupied, but she loves him, too.