His eyes remind me of my skin,
and when he looks at me,
it is like staring at a version of myself that I have yet to grow tired of.
When he is tired,
he speaks to me in his language,
as if I will automatically understand him,
correcting himself when my face contorts in confusion,
a gentle kiss,
where his lips linger,
as if he could fall asleep there and then,
inside my arms,
with his lips on mine.
When his lips are on mine,
I hear what he is saying,
clearly and without need for translation.
It thrills me,
it frightens me,
because if he means what he says,
maybe I will finally be home.