It's always the same.
We lay, our bodies tangled in the sheets, limbs entwined, flesh pressed so tightly together I can hardly tell where I end and he begins. His fingers brush lightly across my back, the skin tingling where he touches. I bury my face deep in his chest, relishing in the warmth he exudes.
Silently I watch the bars of sunlight creeping up the bedroom wall and cling to him all the more because I know the growing light is going to draw him away from me. He tilts my chin up and I know what's coming – soft Eskimo kisses; the prelude to our goodbye. But I can't be too sad because I know he'll be back; when the sun has risen to its highest point in the sky and his need for me overwhelms him.
I lift my hand to touch his face and his fingers lock with mine, both our arms now outstretched on the bed crucifixion style in an effort to stop me touching his scar. I don't struggle; just reach upwards, my lips smoothing the angry red skin anyway. The scowl on his face is replaced with the ghost of a smile which tells me he doesn't really mind.
He never does.