“I’d write about your lips,” his thumb grazed over my bottom lip, “and how they were made perfectly with mine in mind. I’d write about those brown eyes of yours, and how they were created to hold my reflection. And your touch … how you don’t understand the power a single brush of your finger has over me. But what’s truly remarkable is when the world attempts to pull me under, you arrest my heart, and the rest of me could slip away, but it wouldn’t matter. Still, it would beat. Steady. Solid. Secure.” He looked up to the sky again watching the trees sway in the October dawn. “Something like
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