making you out of everything

I think I'm ready to write our story now-- the story that exists between the thick lines of my mind, the one that rattles me awake in the sleep of night and the break of day. Write it as we are and everything we could be.

I saw you today, first time in too long I think, and those eyes, that little smile, your hands your everything. I lose it every time. And I mumbled because I was afraid to open my mouth too wide, and then you just stood there and talked to me and we rapid fired yes no back and forth like it was water slipping through river rocks and if we'd been alone, I can't promise you that I wouldn't have touched you. (But actually, I could promise that I wouldn't have touched you because I still haven't seen the blink of the green light, and without that- I sit still.) What always, always gets me with you is the way you won't look away when you're talking to me. Eye to eye, word to word, hidden meaning to supressed wonder.

One solitary finger to finger brush in the passing of a tiny tome of sound. Accidental and beautiful. Miniscule, too. But your smile, your eyes, your fucking everything. I flush into dust the moment you appear. I'm not yet sure if this is good or bad. I'm not yet sure if you've started to realize anything.

Yes, this is floating in my head, chord and rhyme tangled in what ifs. Yes, I am making you a response.

If you were for me, I would never let you go.