“He taught me how to love, but he didn’t teach me how to stop.”
It’s okay that you don’t see yourself the way that I do. That you don’t see how your eyes are sprinkled with flecks of hazel, and you probably don’t realize that you bring your left hand up to your mouth every time you laugh. The same hands that hold me, that could probably build towers and castles and maybe you do, maybe you don’t understand that when your left is in my right, I know you were worth waiting for.
The way you kiss me. God, I have not been kissed like that in a long time. I had almost forgotten all about romance. The rosy cheeks and swollen lips and star spangled eyes. How our tongues are made of honey and our lovemaking can be found among hidden gemstones and orbiting planets. Undiscovered galaxies and unexplained footprints on the moon.
We had a way of acting drunk without ever actually being it. There was just something about you, I think. Something that made my pupils dilate and my skin warm with beads of sweat that dotted my cheeks like staccato love notes. Maybe it was your bluebird kisses and honey speckled skin, or the alchemy that made you forever young, my love.
We sat in a café, drinking coffees far too large for our faces, but fitting for our eyes. You gave me the bigger half of that chocolate chip cookie, too. Even in the beginning, you were a candy-cane-Christmas-morning kind of sweet. You opened the passenger door of your car on our first date, in that tan and turquoise dress, you helped me into your Xterra, and I felt the electricity exchange between our fingertips.