Solace

You mean that to me. I am sharp and prickly, angular and cold to the touch, and then you come and wrap me up and hold me tight and make me feel alright again, cosy and warm. I adore you. Every time I think that maybe I don't you go back to being exactly you and not worrying about the silly things (because your actual worry things are worthy of worrying, and you shouldn't worry, and you aren't boring darling). You are clever and beautiful and, no, not perfect, but nontheless perfectly right for me. You look after me and protect me and I like that, because despite that prickly sharp exterior I do need someone. I wonder if you'd let me look after you. We will be sleeping in the same bed more in the next month, and I get excited and calm at the thought of all night chats back to back with you. Beautiful.

Here's an example. I haven't been eating right and you noticed. You let me do your hair. You let me be honest to you, and you need me as well. You let me sleep in your bed even if I might be irritating and large, and maybe you need me there too because of nightscratchings round the peripheries of your thoughts. You care about your parents but not so much that you try to save them from each other, a futile endeavour.

You're solace. Your perfect neck that fits the curve of my skull, kind words and understanding silences, even if you don't understand what it might be about, the soft strong curve of your arm round my shoulders and your back on the crook of my elbow that makes me feel happy that I can support you too; I'm none so angular that we don't fit. You're vulnerable and strong all in one, body the texture of silk into my arms that's pliant and firm. Perfect.