Lips of an Angel – or a Devil?

I can see him sitting over there, lips pursed, concentrating on the lyrics he’s trying to write. He looks at the paper, picks up his pen, scribbles, and then slams the pen back down again. He’s having a hard time getting it just right today. Frustrated, he’ll pick up his guitar, strum a bit and then repeat the whole process. I can’t help but laugh; he looks like such a kid in his t-shirt and ball cap, unshaven face the only thing marking his true age.

Ah, but those lips… nothing boyish about them.

My Cowboy has to have the most amazing mouth I’ve ever seen on a man. I’m obsessed I admit it. I can’t help but stare when he’s not looking. Wide, pink lips that just beg to be kissed. Sweet, deep dimples. Beautiful, white teeth that he loves to show off with that smile of his.

And that smile is enough to make me weak in the knees.

He smiles with absolute abandon. His smile reflects his fun-loving attitude, his outlook on life – all or nothing. You either get teeth and dimples or these two beautiful lips relaxing against one another, comfortable with their place in life. He lives his life in the same manner. Which is why I love him so much. You never have to wonder what you’re going to get with him – it’s always right there for you to see.

But then, that’s also why I want to murder him most days.

Ah, he must have found the right words, finally. He’s smiling again; bobbing his head in time to music only he can hear. For now, anyway. Before the day is out, I’m sure I’ll be hearing it too. I can almost hear his melodic voice floating over the guitar, from his lips to my heart. Will it be words of love today or something else? He loves nothing more than a good, old fashioned drinking song. With my Cowboy, you never can tell.

That’s all just part of his charm.

I can’t wait to hear what he’s come up with today. I try to be patient while he’s writing but I live for those moments when he perches on the coffee table, guitar in hand, hair standing on end, and sings the latest piece for me. Then I can watch his mouth move, forming words, making those beautiful sounds, and he never suspects. And I never have to explain either; I just get to watch and dream…

And of course, he reaps the rewards later. Still, he’s content thinking it’s the music that does it to me. If he only knew… I wonder if he’d sing to me more often if he did?

~A Dreamy Ali