Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Dhachaigh

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,

and then,

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.

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