all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

1- Paul McCartney

The soft, almost-inaudible pitter-patter against the floorboards, muffled by the light tapping (almost like deft fingers) against the slightly-fogged up window, did nothing but cause my lips to involuntarily rise in a smile.

As the sound of graceful feet grew more easily heard, my mouth synonymously curved further upwards, not yet in a full grin, but still smiling softly. An expression I couldn't help but master, having lived in the heavenly coditions I live in.

Folded arms tightly hugging myself, I watched with patient eyes as the lush gardens of our home soaked up the brilliant shower, becoming even more evergreen than was possible. It seemed like a tape put on fast forward, with a vividly colorful flower blooming within mere seconds as I looked on, admiring the way our London front yard soaked up the heavens' tears.

Before I could even await the reflection's appearance in the splendid window, a pair of soft lips gently brushed against the skin of my exposed neck. Slightly, barely-there. Then a kiss was left behind in its place, as a pair of hands---gentle hands I so cherished and adored---made their way to rest on my hips.

Perhaps it was the manner with which he caressed me, in a way that was so careful, like handling a precious piece of china, and perhaps it was the way it was firm in an endearingly comforting way; an assurance of, "I'm still here. We're fine."

Well, whatever the reason, his touch was always so indescribably familiar, in a way I could always sense in the deepest pits of my heart. Probably because it was he who owned it.

Those gentle hands of his shifted a little as his front curved to fit into my back, the warmth of his pullover-clad chest dissipating throughout my body. His slim legs entwined with mine, cozily snuggling his body with mine, sharing the radiating adoration in his heart with that I have for him just as equally and perhaps even more.

Looking at our reflection in the semi-reflective window, the image of perfection lying behind me wasn't distorted by the falling rain.

Still; the same honey eyes twinkled back at me behind long ebony lashes, sweetly announcing his admiration; the same petite Roman nose scrunched a little as my mussed up curls tickled him; the same gorgeous smile tugged at those perfectly-drawn lips that had left a ghost of a kiss upon my skin just seconds earlier, pulling those rosy cheeks; the same dusted freckles that could only be seen if you'd been intimate with him as I have; the same slightly damp jet-black locks that indicated he'd poked his head out of the balcony earlier.

In short, it showed the flawless men I'd chosen to spend my life with.

Turning around, I came face to face with his aphrodisiac beauty, at a proximity that enabled me to count every single eyelash framing those hazel soulful mirrors. Perhaps I was in awe of him more than I was of Mother Nature herself.

Eyes flickering down to my lips, he sweetly whispered like music to my ears in that silky reverberating accent, "Morning, love."

"It certainly is a good morning, Paul," I sighed happily, my own hands betraying my emotions and creeping up his strong back, laying at rest at the nape of his neck, fingers curling at his longer hairs, "It most certainly is, darling," I mumbled against his warm lips, before sealing mine against them, losing myself in a tangle of his love and mine.

¤¤¤