When I was younger I used to think, He smells like the morning dew. Each and every morning when I would wake I would find him standing against the ceiling-length window, the broadness of his back stretched and tough, so beautiful. I would always awake awake from sweet dreams to find him standing there, his silhouette outlined by the morning sun. And he would pull at the curtains, drawing them away and to the side to let the light in.
I felt sometimes as if he pulled at my heart, though.
The sky was always so blue whenever he would turn, the length of his black hair so beautiful, pure silk at its essence. He was a tall man, and in my young years it seemed to me that he was grander than life itself, and he held a mystery of his own. This mystery fascinated me, pulled me to him. Always.
His smile was so warm, and his touch even more so. He made me feel safe and wanted, and his love was so real that I often found myself caught up in his world. He commanded time so well that I had lost myself in his stormy eyes many times. Those eyes would make me pause so often before.
He would turn to me, the ivory-white of his thin shirt outlining his face. With a small smile he would pull me out of bed, picking my small body up and twisting me round and round, making me laugh.
And I miss him. I miss his voice, his eyes. I miss his laughter, his jokes, his advice. I miss his presence and I miss his arms, the arms that kept me safe. When my parents would scold me harshly he would defend me, preferring to word my wrongdoings in his own unique way. His way was a way I understood, for I felt him a part of me. After all, he had saved my life.
To to this day...I still love him.
Even if he is gone.