KK has no nickname

braiding hair, the strands passing through your fingers like silk

reading poetry to each other, voices like honey in the sun

the intimacy of borrowing their t-shirt

writing things by hand, watching them glide the pen on the paper and taking in their handwriting, their calligraphy

looking at their naked back, connecting the small moles with your fingers as if they were constellations

creating together

listening to music together, sharing the album that speaks to you like no other

hearing their voice when they’ve just woken up, groggy and slightly confused but happy

sharing all your favourite things with them, the intimate art that plays with the strings of your soul: your favourite painting, book, quote, passage, place

feeling time pass by, together

their breath tickling your skin