It’s late at night and we talk in singsong and joke and tease, and I swear, I swear I feel like a kid again. I pick flower petals from your hair and kiss your sweet, succulent lips, breathing in your scent; lingering. Holding onto this moment. There is a name for this feeling. There is a name for this and we relish it. We feast upon it like a starving pack of wolves. Hungry. Craving. Touch; and my fingertips map your skin. Sensation. Burning. Consuming. And I taste ambrosia; the drink of gods. Alive. Yes. We feel alive.
I stay in love with you because you make me feel like nobody else ever has. Even though you’re not mine, I just can’t seem to let go of that. Something in me won’t let me forget it. For some reason I feel I need to hold on to it, to you. Why? That I do not know. Something’s meant to be, I don’t know what, but something…
I want to be cuddling you in my bed, with a Disney movie or a funny movie on in the background, and just to be in your arms.
I want to start being sneaky and mess with you or start acting all playful, whether I start kissing you repeatedly, blowing in your face, poking your side, or just continuously calling you cute because I know that makes you blush and you hate that.
I want you to give me a warning to stop what I’m doing, or else there will be consequences…or maybe not to give me a warning and to just skip ahead to the attack.
The attack where you say, “Thats it!” and then proceed to tickle me, without releasing me from your arms, while all I can do is giggle madly into your chest and squirm…both of us smiling and enjoying every minute of this.
Then I want you to stop after a little, giving me a break, so I can stop hiding my red, blushing face in your chest to look up at you with a big goofy smile because I get that goofy smile every time I look at you.