I lie next to him in a dark room, only faintly lit by the soft white glow of the numbers on an electric clock. Even with my mind slowly fading into sleep and my eyes closed, as he rests, I concentrate on the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest with each deep, controlled breath. I match my breathing to his — synchronized — and a wave of calm and serenity washes over me as I drift into a slumber.
In the middle of the night, I am only woken by him shifting, changing positions, and adjusting himself to feel closer to me. In those brief moments of wakefulness, I feel his strong arms securely pull me back in towards his chest. His fingers search in the dark for my hand, and they intertwine with mine when he finds it. Softly, he nuzzles his face into my shoulder, and I can sense his body relaxing, molding to the curvature of mine, our bodies so physically close together that we almost become like one. His warmth radiates off him like the consistent love and care that I know we have for one another. Comfort, security, softness, and passion — it all emanates from his subconscious touch.
In the place that is physically my home, it is cold, dark, and demeaning, everything that is the opposite of the piercingly bright light that he brings into my life with his presence and connection. In a small and simple room with a mattress on the ground, we lie together without exchanging words. But yet I know deep within, there is nowhere I would rather be than with the person whose embrace feels like coming home to a warm house on a cold night.
This is the feeling that I know is felt beyond any words, and an irreplaceable sensation of inner peace that cannot be replicated. It is one of pure joy, calmly felt in the quietest moments, and even in the silence, the emotions that fill the room speak for themselves.