“she makes a mess and i clean up"

That’s our routine.

We’ve done it countless times at this point I’m a pro.

And I would do it over and over again.

Immediately. Without hesitation.

With a smile on my face and love in my heart and absolutely zero dignity left to my name.

Loving a woman.

Nurturing and caring for her.

Touching her so good she isn’t ashamed when it comes to expelling bodily fluids readily.

There’s trust, cause she knows I wont judge but relish in every moment.

The way she smells, the intense joy of her laugh landing on my ears.

The result, being her climax on the sheets.

This woman, so beautiful, she would rearrange my entire nervous system and then have me looking for spare bedding in the dark.

But here I am.

While she’s ruined in the best possible way; boneless, lying there like a Renaissance painting. She looks lit from inside, glowing, completely satisfied and completely aware of it.

She stretches and makes a small sound and my already mushy legs quiver.

And each time I have to physically remind myself that I am supposed to be changing the sheets right now and not just staring at her like we’re about to get ruined one more time.

I strip the bed, and clean up with the practiced calm of someone who has accepted their fate and found it beautiful. I do not complain. I do not make a single comment about the state of things.

If only she knows how insane I am about her, and how this small act of cleaning up her beautiful chaos feels like something close to a privilege. Like I’ve been trusted with something precious. Like she made this mess with me and now I get to take care of it, which means I get to take care of her, which is all I ever want to do anyway so really she’s the one doing me a favour.

I finish the bed, while she looks at me from across the room.

Observing me, watching me with those eyes.

She drifts into the bathroom, all warm and wet, walking with that gait that belongs only to women who have just been thoroughly loved.

I hear the shower and I follow.

And here is where I lose the plot entirely.

Because she is standing there under the water and she turns to look at me and something about the steam and the low light and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room, which I am, but still, it does something irreversible to my chest.

We kiss. Slow and stupid and long, the kind of kiss with no urgency because we have nowhere else to be.

Her hands grab my hair. The water is warm. And I am completely and catastrophically down bad for this woman and it hits me fresh, right here, like it always does, like it’s the first time every time.

We get out eventually. Hunger. The sacred post-sex appetite that turns simple food into the best meal of your life. We eat together in the quiet, her leg thrown over mine, talking about nothing, laughing about something small, her mouth doing that thing it does when she’s happy and relaxed and fully herself. I watch her more than I eat.

Then we get into bed, clean sheets, the one I sorted out while she was glowing across the room and she tucks herself into me like she was always supposed to be there.

You feel the balance right?

I feel it too.

Like I was built specifically to be the shape she fits into. Maybe I was. I wouldn’t rule it out.

But this is our space. Our routine. Our world.

Ours.

She makes a mess. I clean up.

She laughs and I stare.

We shower and eat and hold each other until we can’t tell where the night ends.

Balance.

And honestly, I would change these sheets every night for the rest of my life and call it luck.

Because this is how I feel every day with her.

Lucky.

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song choice- her body is bible by Fletcher