GLENN J. CASIRAGHI || IT BECOMES ONE OF OUR RITUALS.
It becomes one of our rituals: like sharing a pot of freshly brewed tea every morning in his office before work, like building snow igloos over frost-tipped blades of grass in winter, like slow-dancing underneath the moon with music fading in the background.
He knows how to make flower crowns for me these days, his hands quick and practiced, fingers deftly braiding grasshopper-thin stems into something less brittle, something beautiful, something absolutely and completely ours.
They’re the same hands that cherish me with summer-kissed warmth right now, the same hands that grip my own with a tiny, telling sort of hesitation as he comes closer, leans forward, the same hands that gently rest at the nape of my neck, gently entangle themselves in the mass of my brown hair, gently cup my face.
He presses his lips to mine, and I am gone.