"Love is the heat of his breath on my neck when he sleeps, waking up with the air burst open and his long fingers twined in my hair; wanting the shadows below his lips and eyes to flicker as he trembles, trembles with that early morning smile, still thick and golden from a night of restlessness; blanket-trenches carved across his cheeks in dirty red slices like the contours of a battlefield."
— S. Jelkins