He predicts me - in all of my unpredictability - he reads me like a Sunday paper, smudging through crisp, inky pages. Scanning, gathering all of the important information then holding it inside his vault-like heart.
He knows my every irrational insecurity. He senses my sadness from contactless distance and he makes me smile through years of salty tears with just a few words.
Southern Comfort.
Mountain Soul.
He fits me like a custom made glove, so different from my skin yet such a perfect fit. Stitched together so neatly, tightly — gently.
Southern Comfort.
Mountain Man.
He has my heart in the palm of his hands.