Butterflies

At this point, words are not necessary.
We shut the movie off, dim the lights and fall into each other’s embrace.
My head finds its home on his chest
while I listen to his heart race in between each of his slow, rhythmic breaths.
I alternate between drawing obscure shapes on his shoulder with my fingers
and running my hand through the curls of his perfectly disheveled hair.
Simultaneously, his hand runs from the base of my neck, down my arm, and to my lower back,
never lingering for more than a second
before making its way back up.
This motion repeats. And repeats.
The movement of his hand is so soothing that my eyes begin to shut
and my mind flirts with the notion of sleep.
But sleeping in a situation like this would not be sensible.
This situation is so calm,
so tranquil, so relaxing,
that I want to absorb every drop of its beauty into my conscious being.
I lift my head the slightest bit, and he looks down at me.
I kiss his soft cheek, flash him my most sincere smile,
and proceed to sink back into the most comfortable position I’ve ever been in
on this college dorm-room bed.
Moments like this one instantaneously turn my stomach into a domicile for excited butterflies
and I am not complaining.

*Amber