Steffe
Cecilia
My hand knows the exact shape of her cheek. My eye knows every curved millimeter of each of her thirty-seven different smiles. My neck knows the contour of her face when I hold her close against me and feel her slowly begin to relax. My nostrils know the fresh smell of her after she showers, and the sharp smell after she’s worked hard. My arms know the small bones of her shoulders, my palms know the angle of her hips, my fingers know the firm clasp of her hand as we walk.
Her thin wrist is a miracle to me. Her nose is a delight to me. Her eyes are a joy to me. I would rather visit her dimple than all the natural wonders of the world.
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