Yesterday morning whilst I sat on the sofa
drinking coffee in his hoody, my main squeeze wandered around the house in
jeans and bare feet and I realised, from nowhere, that he had never looked more
perfect to me. I don't even like feet.
It was weird,
how just that sight of him, bare footed and laughing in the living room,
warming his feet over the roaring flames of the fire, gave me the absolute warm
fuzzies. It was nothing special, and certainly nothing intimate and yet there was
a strange sort of intimacy, a sort of vulnerability almost that I don’t
know quite how to explain.