waking with him, like knotted rope

because things are good more often than they are not.

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When I turn around, he cups my face in his hands and he kisses me so deeply that I don’t know who is breathing for [whom], but his mouth and tongue taste like warm honey. I don’t know how long it lasts, but when I let go of him, I miss it already.
On the Jellicoe Road (Melina Marchetta)

(Source: wordsthat-speak, via thesefishtitsbeonfire)