Essence of warm

One was always the warmth of sleep, under blankets of soft ember heat. The wholeness that jigsaw puzzle pieces feel when fitted together. From separate shapes now forming new images, hidden are the lines between each other. Lost under quilts and woven together in the early hours. 

I know another was the warmth of water, the heat of the steam as it blurs the bathroom mirror. It’s his gentle fingertips on your eyelids and kisses on your forehead as he lingers on your skin. The warmth of his breath as he collapses onto you, shaken and heavy. It's the warm feeling of satisfaction. 

My most familiar and dear, well, he was warm like sunlight. A warmth you can taste, drink. Warm as gold, amber and honey. A warmth that spreads onto anything, it touches, seeps into you and stays there. Warm like whiskey deep in your stomach, immune, a forever fire that he’ll always have to light his torch with. 

It's only in cold climates that I remember what warmth feels like.