You’re beautiful, with your creamy, freckled skin, your red-gold hair spilling like a flame across the pillow, your eyelashes curling and thick against your cheeks, rosy with sleep.

I try not to wake you as I slip out of the sheets, gather up my pillow and a quilt before treading softly to the door.

I turn back, gazing on a vision of perfection, reluctant to leave.

Your rosy mouth, parted slightly, is so kissable, curving in a faint, crooked smile, brought on by some pleasant dream.

I hesitate on the threshold, my whole being swelling, brimming with adoration and love, and awe. Awe that you’re mine— my wife, my love, my soul.

Then the parted lips twitch, and the room fills with the rasp of a thousand creaking saws as you inhale deeply, still lost in the deep blue currents of slumber.

With a chuckle, I withdraw, gently closing the door behind me with a click as I pad to the couch to sleep until, in a few hours time, our kids come and pounce on me, demanding what, on this fine morning, their dad will make them for breakfast.

Because mum’s still snoring.