His legs moved beneath the soft cotton sheets, grazing her backside. She’d been awake for an hour – maybe more – listening to the sounds of fall just outside her window. The rustling wind caught against the glass, sneaking in through the tiny gaps in the panes and giving the room a cold chill. And so she shuddered, despite the warmth of the man beside her.
Sunday crosswords and farmers markets were not their style. They were both writers with inkstained hands and hidden tattoos, poor but happy in their own respect. The love they shared was strange, but familiar, and neither would have ever willingly left their muse behind.
The sex was as inspiring as their work, and when his hands moved quietly, hungrily, across her porcelain skin - pausing at every bulge and crevice - she too felt like poetry. It was never outright wild or frenzied but always passionate and unexpected, and for the most part, that was enough.
She turned herself so that she was facing him, his open mouth inches from her forehead. Burying her face in the cavern between his shoulder and jawbone, she let a sad breath escape her. She closed her eyes, capturing the snapshot of their crumpled bodies one last time, ready to remember their last day shared alive together.