I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head

My perfect man: Just the right shade of sarcastic on the cusp of being an utter bastard. Dark in features, harsh eyes, crooked smile, a backbone with a slant supported by broad shoulders. An unshaven, slightly tousled, literature enthusiast. He softens only for me, abominates my idea of romance declaring I have "false" expectations and unbalanced hopes. He lets me draw things on his skin, let's me take photos of his hands in bed sheets. His movements are as elegant as a predator (perhaps a wild cat), he smells wonderful, the contour of his jaw is as sharp as cut glass, he laughs at my crummy jokes. We have intelligent conversations about where we came from, and who we think we are. He reads me his favorite passages of his new book, he writes my name on train-station walls, has a few tattoos, and is content with the paradigm we have, lost lid from the toothpaste bottle and all.
He kisses my forehead in the mornings, makes coffee before breakfast. He respects that there are times I won't let him touch me because the air feels like sandpaper against my skin, and that some days, I don't want to talk to him at all.