I can hardly hear what I say whenever you walk in. My ability to put two words together in my mind fails, so my mouth takes over and opens and closes spitting out sounds in an autopiloted rhythm. You’re a smart guy, and I know I am capable of keeping up. Just sometimes when you aren’t in a room and suddenly you are in the room, I dsafk dkfjldsf kdfkldf kddf pijklejr. Damn. See what you made me do? I can’t even type straight. I can only hope that the words falling from my lips are making sense. They must be, you always seem so at ease when I get rambling. Nothing seems quite out of place with you. You answer here and there in just the right amounts. I feel like i’m a waterfall of words and emotions and am too much of everything, all the while you’re a perfectly measured cup of sentences and expressions.
Lately I’ve been a little scattered. I’ve wanted one thing and then wanted another. I’ve been fighting these battles in my head that don’t actually exist to anyone else. I feel like you’ve been sitting down, watching me jump about in different directions just waiting for me to calm down and exhaust myself. When I’m out of breath from all of the changes, from all of the decisions I waiver back and forth on, you catch me. And you don’t even ask me what took me so long. You just smile.
Your eyes are beautiful. At first glance, they’re very blue. Not like the ocean, no. Like the sky. Like the heavens we see from the Earth...Not that I believe in heaven, It’s just that...I’m in one of those moods where I want to describe your eyes using words like, “heavenly.” I love when your eyes sometimes smile even before your lips do, and it makes me happy knowing a smile on your face is only a few seconds away from fully forming. Sometimes in conversation, the blues of your eyes grow especially vibrant. They are constantly asking, “Do you understand?” when you speak and are always telling me, “I understand,” when I speak.
I think that moment, that basic connection between two humans where we hear, listen, comprehend, absorb, and reflect on what is being said to us is very often taken for granted. Communication seems so normal, and yet it’s so normally neglected. But your eyes don’t miss a beat, and I like staring into them because I like knowing that my words are connecting.
It seems unfair to stop at your eyes, to ignore the curve of your nose or your rose colored lips, but alas, I’m no Shakespeare though I don’t feel too far away from comparing you to a cool winter’s day. I’ll save your features a few compliments and give them kisses instead. Lips aren’t just for words. Even writers know that.
Sometimes you make me feel strongly about things. Maybe it’s something we disagree on, maybe it’s the color green, maybe it’s how I feel about you. I try to simmer. I try to keep my cool. I don’t want to scare you. It’s kind of terrifying thinking that I could. That I might. (What’s life without a little terror? What’s terror without a little life?) And although time and time again you show up as casually as you had left the time before, I still treat every goodbye like it might be our last.
Would I love a writer who writes so boldly? Could I handle never knowing when I was reading the last sentence?