They are brown. Brown like soil saturated with water that sticks on your shoes if you step in it. Brown like a tree trunk in one of those never-ending forests you read about in stories, ones that are humid and make your hair stick to the back of your neck and the sides of your face after wandering. Brown like two cups of milk-less coffee sitting next to each other on a wooden table top. Brown like dark chocolate.
And they are mine. Mine to look into if I wish, get lost into. Or switch between the two quickly while they try to catch the hazel of mine, that are also his. But my favorite thing to do is to watch them lighten- like dry sand on the beach, with happiness.
He smiles at me, and most times I can't help but smile back. Here we are, the two of us, him and I. And I wonder if I have half the effect on him as he does on me. Most times I do, and he can't help but wrap his right arm around my neck and kiss the side of my head, smiling and calling me cute. And I'd smile. The brown would vanish, rested by their lids, curved upward in a smile.
His skin is that tan-olive color of his ethnicity. It reminds me of leather, tough where it needs to be and smooth everywhere else. His hair is darker, so dark brown that it's probably black. But every now and then, it catches in the sun just right and it's clearly only as dark as his eyes.
He has all of the magic that boyfriends and lovers need to have, if even for the moment. He knows when to say something, and when to listen. His arms belong on me, no matter my mood. And I can be perfectly content kissing nothing but his chest my whole life, so long as I can still rest my head on it while we lay together.
His lips are dark red and thin, and can be beautiful either closed in silence or stretched with glee. They always match his eyes, and show me what his eyes cannot. They can whisper, they can demand- and with the matching tone, make me melt all over again.
When he demands, I do not always listen. This will earn me the loss of sight by silk or satin, or the loss of motion by metal or rope. But he knows me- he knows every inch of my vulnerable naked body. He knows me- every crook and cranny of my mind. And he'll take care to return me as he found me: fair and flawless. A freckle here and there, but smooth and scar-less.
And if I leave it up all day, he'll take my ties out and let my hair fall down. No matter when, it'll be damp from my shower and the herbal scents from my conditioner will radiate outwards. He likes it, and will let it linger on his pillows as long as I want it to. He'll fall asleep with it later, when I'm gone. But for now, he'll run his fingers through it, bury them in it while he kisses me that way no one else knows. Or he'll gather it all up and pull it back so he can access my neck better. Later, he'll jokingly complain that I shed, and my hair is consuming his bedroom. But he loves each and every red strand.
His hair is best when it's soaked and black. I can run my hands through it easily, tangle my fingers in it without giving him knots. Scratch his scalp, give him playful hairstyles only I'll get to enjoy. And he tolerates it because he loves my laugh.