I haven't written in a while, but it's raining, and there's a thunderstorm, and this kind of weather always inspires me to write. I call it poets' weather. Or artists' weather. Or lovers' weather. It's when the rain-kissed earth gives off a rich, steamy, familiar smell, and it reminds me of lying with him under a blanket, pressing my face to his broad back. I can feel both my cool cheek and his warm skin, as though they are fused together. Inseparable. And when he falls asleep next to me, I look at him. Sleep makes him look so fragile, so breakable. And I vow to never let him be broken. It's not always about how he loves me, I realise that now. How do I love him? Fiercely. Passionately. Softly. Wholly. And as I hold him together, I marvel at his perfection. He is beautiful. And he is mine. I pray to God that I can always say this with the utmost confidence. He is mine. I run my fingers along the ridge of his nose, playing with the soft dip it forms just between his eyes. A perfect place for my lips. His skin is hot under my tongue and he tries to wake up, but his eyes are glued shut with exhaustion and tranquility. "I feel calmer around you," he once said, and I believe him because I know the serenity he brings with himself whenever he comes to see me. I push his hair off his forehead but the curls fall back, not into place, but still perfect. Occasionally, he snores, and I hold him tighter, afraid that my smile is too loud and would wake him. Afterwards, my skin smells of him. Like the earth smells of rain.