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Beauty. What do I not call beautiful? Your hair smells of henna, you leave it on the pillows after you wake up. I wake up, and awaken at that scent. Your eyes, they play their own game, independent of your lips. But more on those later. Your eyes laugh, beckon, tease as I look into them through the mirror, when you delicate fingers comb your hair. But more on that later. Your lips. Luscious, pouted. They parch mine, waiting to bleed together as I kiss up your supine neck, but more on that later. Tongues lash even as our breathing deafens us over the shout of the paperwalla. Those delicate fingers run up and down my back. Sometimes the nails bite in to the back. Sometimes tickle. But we have to break. The morning does not wait. That mole on the tender neck, I kiss. Just above where the collar bone now lays exposed over the dishevelled blouse. I would have said more on that later. But you have to pick up your husband from the airport, and my wife is returning by the morning tra