He imagines my evening routine.
Every movement as clear as if watching through the window:
Shower, brush teeth, lavender lotion to smooth away the day.
Crawling under sheets and around positioned pillows.
 
Soft & scented.
Nestled naked.
Exactly as he likes.

I lean over,
An open book of words
enscribed on flesh
for his reading.

Closed eyes.
Fluttering eyelashes see fingertips turn the pages of a love story outlined and unwritten.
He breathes in soft bedside light, 
outlining shadows of future chapters.
With an ache, he skips to the last page, closes the weathered binding, and tucks me away.