We touch each other casually; a poke in the stomach, a jab in the side. I slap your ass when no one is watching and you look me up and down in my tube top and mini-skirt like I am a medium-rare slab of meat.
When we lie on your bed, you grab my hips when I teeter too close to the edge; I hold your hand when I am scared or cold, and I lean against your shoulder when I am lonely, which is more often than not.
These exchanges are not hidden, just quiet. Two flirts existing in the same bubble, our grins are not war-cries, merely comfort. They are public, yet the world does not seem to care. They do not care, because neither do we.
I am ashamed to admit I am in love with these moments. Casual lingers and air-blown kisses– they keep me saner than you know. I am in love with what we are, as long as I do not think of what we are not.