I watch you from across the table and I can't help to feel like I have ended up in a bad love scene. There are clothes spread across the floor; a trail from the bed to the kitchen in the form of socks, shoes, my blouse, a bra and here you are casually sitting in nothing but a pair of boxers. I pull the white cotton shirt, yours I might add, closer to my chest as to confirm I am still covered. I am not sure how I got into your kitchen, how I ended up naked but I am painfully aware that I am growing attached to your presence and the idea of being detached is petrifying. Your hair is a mess but you have tied it back up in a bun. Your skin is covered in tattoos and I wonder if you consider them your warrior scars and if they are, if you were them with pride. You are a perfect combination between carrying the letters of an open book on your body, and a profoundly protecting your secrets with utter sarcasm and a wrinkled eyebrow. Yet here you are sitting across from me, looking completely accomplished to have concurred me on a Monday Afternoon, drinking black coffee and about to break my heart.