The L Word
It's OK if he doesn't say it. I see it in his eyes sometimes. Or I feel it in his fingers when he touches my face. It's even there when we fight. It makes me feel warm and safe, even when we're trying to yell and scream at each other.
He likes the way my hair smells. Likes to run his fingers through it when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I like the way he smells, too, underneath the sweat and smoke and booze. Just him. It's like Someplace I think I'd like to visit. It's strangely warm. Deep and alive; unmistakable.
I'm just here for the music. His sad, angry music. He's a god, after all. I'm happy to be allowed