Paintings were perfectly crafted expressions of beauty. You were just like a painting to him. Art. Every flush of colour of your face, each glisten of your eyes and the curve of your lips was like a renaissance painting.

A vision, a beautifully framed picture: Obi could barely form the words for you. Perfect was the most fitting.

“You are like rays of light from the gods” he whispered against the flesh of your knuckles, lips trailing over your body as devoted worship. “A perfect sculpture carved by angels” his Nigerian accent was thick and his word like honey.