You're a little too far away- and I miss the cracked door, and your smile, and everything. & I wanted to pluck a flower from the thirty fresh colors sitting slightly over my head, take it to you. Just because. The tension and ?sadness?frustration? lacing through your voice make my heart and fingers ache, because my body/heart/everything simply wants to swaddle you and make love with you for hours on end-- make you smile and laugh and raise the wash of flush across your cheeks. 3/5 isn't bad. I guess. I'd even take 4/5, leaving our love making to rise as slowly as it will (though isn't going-on three years slow enough?).
Because today, I made you laugh, and such a simple thing shocked into a (for you) difficult sort of day struck a lightning-red streak of happiness into me. & for once, I wasn't the only one who saw it- that endearingly casual intimacy that parades around us, between us, shrugging me(us?) into queer confusion. "Aren't you two chummy?" [I can think of thirty-two better words, none of which could accurately say what is brewing, boiling over and I don't want to contain it any longer.]
What I'm saying is that I'm crazy about you. Blindingly rocked by each crack of your smile, each lock and tremor of our china blue/icy green connection, the warming luck of the way we stand so close and speak in a manner I can only describe as intimate. My palms lay flat for you, waiting for your touch to slip into mine. You've no (visible) recognition of how we would be, and I sit on the outskirts, tender to every glance and movement, already knowing, continually wanting.
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