Soft

The golden pencil sat shaking on pale lips, this was where it was meant to sit. There is peace in the curve of her face. Every freckle, every dip, every bit. She looks up at me. My eyes affixed.

“What?” she asks softer than silk.

I wear my best smirk, trying to work love into several muscles actions. “Nothing,” I assure in my voice too high. 

I creep my fingers like thick spider legs to her hand. Those eyes so sweet when they light up bright, the edges of her mouth drawn tight. “I love you.”

I give my needed response. There is no joke, no amount of silence, no fake kindness, that could match that statement made from pale lips so soft other than, “I love you too.” For I do.

How could I ever think to die before my time? When I pass, much older, more in love with her, I want to have her soft hand gripped in mine.

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