In the morning

I’m up, it’s 7, a lovely Saturday morning. The drapes fall from up above and are tricked here and there by a few rays of sun. I’m sleeping in a corner, on the edge of the bed. She took over it, she just conquered it and pushed me aside. But it’s ok, I don’t mind, I love her. I love to look at her when she sleeps. To stop and ask myself: what is she dreaming about ? where does her mind fly ?
I look at her and I … I cant find my words. She’s … a Lady. She’s my Lady. I got this smile on my face, she fell asleep with my French cuffed shirt. She knows I love it when she does this, I always did like to see her try on my shirts, to literally get lost trying them on and tell me from time to time how much she loves my perfume. Underneath the sheets I can see her hips, her chocolate skin is shouting at me, demanding me to bite her but I restrain myself. I gently place my hand on her cheek, take of that rebel hair and kiss her left hand just like the day she said “Yes”.
I love that she doesn’t stress herself with bullshit like make-up and nonscence. She knows how much I appreciate her for being natural, for not hiding behind a mask of mascara or a fake smile. She knows how brutally honest I can be.
I love her because she is the strongest woman out there. No one above her and she fears nothing. Sometimes I make fun of her saying she’s the Hitler of her employees. Her attitude is so sexy but imposes so much respect. You can tell by the way she dresses and walks. Wherever she goes she steals some compliments and turns around heads. Sometimes I think, what does she see in me ? I love how tough she is with everyone else, but when we are face to face, I can tell her voice is shaking, the moment she sees me her knees turn soft like she is going to faint, she is so innocent, so vulnerable. Somehow, out of the blue, that femme-fatale disappeared and all that’s left is a girl, an innocent young little girl. Like a teenager in love with a famous actor. I feel like I know every single secret of hers, that I can turn her easily with just a touch, that I can play with her whenever I want however I desire, that she is my victim.
But she knows best, she knows these arms of mine are made to hold her tighter and to protect her. She knows how much I love that people hit on her, just so I can have an excuse to abuse my jealousy and start punching some fools. She knows I would do anything for her, she just has to think of it. Like the time I gave her my Nike’s because her shoes gave her feet some blisters and I had to walk barefoot all the way back home. She knows I’ll always be there for her, that I will fall asleep after her and that I will…
Wake up in the morning, it’s 7, a nice Saturday and I’m here in my one-person bed… damn