Every time I see him I notice his perfect hair, without staring.
Maybe I don’t want him as my person, as a romantic love, but that doesn’t stop me from noticing how he’s taller than me in just the right amount. How his form and shoulders would cover me up in embrace if he would. His lips are pretty, but I’ve never fantasized about them, until he softly laid kisses on his dog and I knew he was capable of gentle love.
I notice because as humans, we notice virtue. We notice intimacy. We crave it. We see beauty.
So when he whispers something to himself, and I hear that breathy soft voice, maybe I do imagine for a moment that he’s holding me with those hands and whispering into my ear and neck.
Those pretty lips aren’t anything that keep me up at night, but when he’s in front of me, I can acknowledge in my heart that they are cute lips. For someone who hardly touches people at all, I would sure love to be kissed like that dog, whispered to like he does to himself, and made to feel as beautiful as he is.
And to all this I add, not necessarily by him; handsome, intelligent young man that he is.
— B. E. Barnes | could it be called infatuation, or appreciation?