There are stories in him, the same way they live in me. His veins run black with ink and his bones are made of book spines. I want to curl up in the soft warm library of his skin forever. I want my masterpieces to fill his shelves. I want him to sing all of my poetry into song. He strums calloused fingers across minor chords and makes me love the way I long for him and long for the way I might love him. I will miss this feeling when he's mine, so for now I pour the longing into my coffee every morning like a sweetener. He doesn't turn away from my pain — he touches it with his wet tongue and turns it over in his mouth until it is beautiful. He sings me to sleep at night, where I dream of writing stories for him in the morning. He is there when I wake up, singing, plucking all my gritty heartbreaks into golden hours.