He tells me I have punk rock shoulders.
I giggle and ask him to explain.
He doesn't answer, not with words, because he never speaks more than necessary, and his fingers brush across the skin stretched across my collarbone.
I frown at the contrast between his black fingernails and my pallid flesh, and I squirm beneath his touch, tucking myself beneath the blankets so that he can't see how flawed I am.
He smiles in his gentle way, and his dark eyes are so soft that I melt into them. I am the only one who sees him this way, and I wish I could smile brightly and chatter like usual.
He takes my breath away, as always, and I am unnaturally speechless. I always know just what to say, but his lips press against the side of my neck, and my body shuts down in happiness. I wonder if I can force the overwhelming swell of love into his consciousness without speaking, using only my body, but my eyes only overflow, and I weep my joy.
He chuckles lightly at my tears and wipes them away, silently telling me he understands. His hand is gently on my shoulder and, quietly, he says they're very punk rock.
I sob out a laugh, and I wonder if I'll ever understand him. But, as he kisses me, I decide it doesn't matter.