I wake up early, my husband is still asleep. I find great satisfaction and enjoyment watching his profile. I am memorizing every contour, every curve, and every characteristic of his face. I resist the urge to touch him for fear that I will wake him.

Honestly, I am aching to wake him. I have an overwhelming sense of loneliness while he sleeps. But for a moment longer I wish to watch him without his knowledge.

My skin looks pasty next to his dark complexion. He is a perfect mocha tone. Amazingly, he likes my shade of faint rose. Even in my own country I am considered pale.

Although his eyes are closed, I know by heart what color they are—burnt copper with specks of olive green. They change with his mood.—gold when he is extremely happy and espresso with irritation.

I risk touching his hair. He stirs, but stays asleep. It’s safe to continue my perusal. Our hair color is similar, but he has speckles and slashes of grey. I have a few also, but no one needs to know. Somehow these flecks of color against his natural coal distinguish him.

He is a beautiful man with a kind heart. He feels emotion with every fiber of his being. He is my protector. I feel the strength of his love and it empowers me.

A tear comes to my eye. I pull back. I am walking a tight rope without a safety net. I am vulnerable. I am happy. I am perfectly calm. My chest becomes heavy with love for this man. I once heard someone very wise say there are ten different kinds of love. I can’t remember what those are, I wish I did, but this love he and I share has mended my heart, has healed my wounds, and filled a void I have felt since I can remember.

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