The feeling of your elbow underneath my ear doesn’t even bother me. I fall asleep anyway, quite fast, because the sound of your breath and the feeling of your chest rising and falling underneath the palm of my hand is so calming that I wish I could keep it and unpack it every night. But not in a romantic way. Just in a.. Way that I can’t explain. I need a word for a relationship that isn’t about being madly in love or anything like that. Something that is more than a friendship, and more than the intimate stuff, too. But not love. Does that make sense? I mean, I know a lot of people talk about open relationships these days, and maybe this is sort of related to that issue seeing it as I don’t like to ask one person for everything. But whatever it is that you give me is something that I really like. I like how the taste of your mouth has become as well known to me as that feeling you get when your feet land on the cold floor as soon as you step out of your bed on a winter’s morning. That “I didn’t know I knew this feeling that well, but now that I feel it, I know that I’ve felt it a thousand times”. I feel the same way about your eyes every time I look into them. Whenever we have one of our wannabe serious “let’s leave the party for five minutes and talk about real important stuff”-moments. Even though we’re always a little too drunk, they always feel so real to me, even when I’m sober and think back on them weeks or maybe even months later. I don’t necessarily remember exactly what we talked about, and maybe it didn’t matter because it’s always something like “let’s go to Bulgaria and turn off our phones for a week” or “did you know that scientists are planning on changing the texture of the surface of the moon” or other Science Illustrated-like topics. It’s never really about what we talk about as much as it’s about the way in which there’s nothing standing between us. Just our own words and the tension they sometimes create. I look at you and I think about an article I once read that said “only two percent of the world’s population has green eyes” and I think “they were right, you are very rare” and sometimes I probably forget to listen to you properly because I’m thinking about so many other things, like the sound it makes when you scratch your stubble or how your lips are always blood rush red. And how I feel when my teeth are wine stained and the sun starts to set through the gap between your curtains. At first the sky turns pink, then orange, then a dark grey kind of purple and then I’m back to looking at your eyes and suddenly everything you say blends in with them. Your words wrapped around pine trees. Your opinions floating around in a moss lake.

I always imagine that your friends ask each other behind your back if we’re together yet, or when we’re gonna make it official, but we’re not like that. We mostly kiss when no one sees it, and mostly when the moon is out. It’s funny, isn’t it? How the dark itself is always a thing you can drift away in, like eyes or perfumes or good bed time stories. The way I see it, the sun takes a lot of common sense with it as it disappears under the horizon. Not that it’s a law of nature or anything, but when the stars start to pop up one by one and the clouds hanging above the city turns gritty orange as daylight disappears, I think goosebumps rub more effortlessly against goosebumps. I think words and sentences feel less heavy and edgy when the mouth they come from is full of shadows and I think the dark takes away that top layer of insecurities from people’s tongues so that they can speak their minds more freely. Which makes everything feel more fluent and closer, kind of. I think that’s what brings us together sometimes. The dark is like a blanket we hide under and talk about childhood friends, ask each other if and when we want to have kids and how we want to raise them.

Sometimes when you wrap your arm around me and pull me in, I close my eyes, and I know you can’t see it, but I do. And the truth is, I’m usually pretty awake and not tired at all. It’s just calming in a way that I can’t explain, as if no one or nothing can reach me and I’m safe for a moment. And then we can go months without seeing each other, and suddenly it’s like that again. Maybe it’s just a “we’re too lazy or too scared to make it real” kind of relationship, but I’m more into the idea of it being a safety-thing. Many people can give you sex, kids or a ring, but not all people can give you a feeling of being safe and unreachable to the rest of the world. So when you find someone who does, I think you should appreciate it. A lot. And stay underneath that arm for hours.