v u l v a l i c i o u s
She says the following, in no particular order:
Your eyes sparkle, you are brilliant, you're so cute, you're a lot of fun, you might just make me like white wine.
She tells me I'm adorable. It's early in the morning, and I've just done something, rolled over onto the side that faces her and made a complaint about the morning, some unintelligible noise. I think of Barthes, of reading with her, of his description of Paris as seen by lovers: Paris is adorable. I think that she likes me.
I only say half of what I'm thinking, for fear that the other half would be too much too soon. My brain travels fast, and carries my heart with it. I think every worn out sentiment that has ever been thought, only I have the guts to say them a quarter of the time instead of never.
I say the following to her, in no particular order:
You're a kind of genderqueer butch, you're so fucking cute, your fingers are amazing, you have the most wonderful mouth, you make me giggle.
What I will say eventually is that holding her hand makes me feel weak in my knees and strong in my gut all at once. That kissing her feels like dancing. That dancing with her is the stuff my dreams are made of. That I could bury myself in the way she smells and not come out until spring.
I will say more. I will make her a card, maybe tomorrow. I will draw a picture of an orange crush, something so strong it will smell of the drink even from the page. It will bubble up around her fingers and effervesce inside her.
We will laugh and say everything, and wait under blankets for winter to come and go.