Your dainty toes peeking out from under the covers, tempting me to pull and tickle.
The way your surly face transforms into a grudging, nose wrinkled, grinch-like smile when I force you to look at me after a fight.
Your new-found teenage stubbornness that reminds me of mine, only retired.
The premature creak of your door announcing your cat's sly, eaves-dropping presence.
How adorably innocent you look, asleep, in your sarong; stretched in innocent, elegant motionlessness while I skulk around for you to wake up.
Your pretty little mouth, habituated to bursts of mocking laughter and acidic retorts that make you look more vulnerable, the more you try to look ugly.
The unusualness uniting our laughs and giggles.
Your pretty little mouth, habituated to bursts of mocking laughter and acidic retorts that make you look more vulnerable, the more you try to look ugly.
The unusualness uniting our laughs and giggles.
But I hate this standoff. And I hate the nameless things stopping me from reaching out, and you from giving in.
And I love you. More than these pitiful, tried and tired words can tell. Words that I feel ashamed to use.
Words; my fatal folly, second only to my pride, followed by palpable, painful silence.
Why do you think I tip toe around what I have for you?
There is a sheer drop on the other side.
And I love you. More than these pitiful, tried and tired words can tell. Words that I feel ashamed to use.
Words; my fatal folly, second only to my pride, followed by palpable, painful silence.
Why do you think I tip toe around what I have for you?
There is a sheer drop on the other side.
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