Speak Low, If You Speak Love

It's the soft caresses in the morning light, piano keys running over warmed, tanned skin.

It's the gentle hum of my favourite song and the flutter of emerald, encased in deepest black; the spark of love in your eyes.

It's the barely there smile on my soft, pink lips, in my storm coloured eyes, in the slide of platinum hair across my cheeks as I gaze at you.

It's the press of lips, gentle as butterfly wings, that soft intake of breath, of familiarity.

It's the feel of our bodies fitting as one, fingers dancing over all the right places, knowing your body better than mine, knowing your thoughts, your needs, before you do, the feel of you leaning into my touch, my embrace, the heat and passion we share.

It's the tender moments too, of standing in the kitchen, late afternoon, watching you sway to the song dancing in your head as you make us a cuppa, of being able to wrap my arms around you and feeling you relax against me, knowing my arms and knowing you're safe.

It's the nightmares I wake you from with just the sound of my voice, kissing your trembling lips, seeing the darkness in your expressive eyes fade as you look into mine.

It's the way you run fingers through your messy, midnight hair, or the way you bite your lower lip whilst you concentrate, the unconscious upward pull of your lips when I say something you find unintentionally funny and the way your eyes are drawn to my lips when I smirk.

It's the way you twined your hands with mine when I confronted my parents about what I was and was not going to do, that they no longer controlled my actions as they dictated me in the past. How you stood your ground, eyes sharp and jaw stubbornly clenched as you told your friends that their protests would go unheard, as you would not leave me and that they learn to deal with it or lose your friendship.

It's the way you whisper how deeply you love me, not only with words, but with the unconscious need you have to touch me, keep me close, even if we're sitting by the fire in our home, surrounded by silence.

It's the way I smile when you're being stubborn to a fault and I feel nothing but affection as you stand your ground defiantly.

It's how we are us, outside of a world where we are nothing but our scars. In our little flat we're not the Boy-Who-Lived and the ex-Death Eater, we're not the Saviour and the Pariah, we're not even Potter and Malfoy. Just Harry and Draco.

Just us.