When you sing, the smile lines around your mouth come out, curving along with the sharp lines of your face. Your eyes closed in passion and concentration, brow furrowed, your profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard lights. A vein rises, running like a river from behind your ear, down your neck, and disappearing behind your collarbone. I trace my fingertips lightly along the skin of your neck while you sing, the muscles and tendons tight from your exhalations.
Your taste in music is intelligent. The taste of you is divine. The way you sing when no one else is around, makes me feel as though I’m witnessing a miracle, or something never seen by human eyes before. Your voice fills the cab of the truck and my ears and my heart.
I can’t look away from you, in the way I imagine, people stared up at saints as they were on their knees in awe.
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