When you're not around, I crave mornings of sleepy half-sentences and warm rumpled bedclothes and your stubble.
And the surface-of-the-sun heat of your skin under my palm.
And the way that the rumble of your chuckle makes the nerve endings clear to my toes vibrate in anticipation of your touch.
I crave the way the little nubbins of hair on the back of your head tickle my fingertips just after you've gotten your hair cut.
And the way your lips quirk up on the left side when you're trying not to laugh at me.
And arguements over art and the education system at one in the morning.
And throwing french fries at you.
And you...
I crave you.
More than I can admit in person.
And the surface-of-the-sun heat of your skin under my palm.
And the way that the rumble of your chuckle makes the nerve endings clear to my toes vibrate in anticipation of your touch.
I crave the way the little nubbins of hair on the back of your head tickle my fingertips just after you've gotten your hair cut.
And the way your lips quirk up on the left side when you're trying not to laugh at me.
And arguements over art and the education system at one in the morning.
And throwing french fries at you.
And you...
I crave you.
More than I can admit in person.
Yes. Exactly this.
ReplyDelete