me:yeah i just need to run home and change really quick
me:takes two hour nap
Say “like” first. Always say “like” first. Like is easy, fluid. You can float
on it, your joints light, face tilted to the sun like a marigold blossom.
Say “You make me happy,” and if that’s too much, sandpaper its edges down to “You made me happy today/this week/this month.” Happiness isn’t love, not necessarily, and anyway you can always choose to take that happiness and make it your own, so that nobody else will have to give it to you, if that’s how you want it. Only if that’s how you want it. Say “I want to meet all your friends. I want to meet your family, see the place saved for you at the dining table, listen to the chairs scrape the floor as the seats are filled by people who know what you look like in your pajamas, barefoot, bathed in the glow of the refrigerator at two in the morning.” You will want to say this in one swift breath— anything too slow might be mistaken for tenderness, and anything too tender might be mistaken for love. Do not whisper anything just yet. Say “There is nobody else like you,” in a firm, clear voice, even though you’re not sure if this is true; maybe you just haven’t scoured the city enough for boys with maple syrup smiles and hands that feel like knots. Say “You can come to me when you’re tired. You can come to me when you’re sad. We can eat soup from a can and watch Japanese game shows until you are laughing again, and here is a blanket to drape over your knees and a tall glass of warm milk.” Say “Home is wherever you are.” Say “Let’s see the world together. Let’s see as much of it before we die.” Do not falter. Try hard not to blink. Say “Let’s go. Right now. Let’s go.”
What did I think about before you touched my thigh? Let me say this: I’m going to touch you until my fingers fall off. If my fingers don’t fall off, I will hold your hand even if it’s sweaty. And let me say this: You are lovelier than clouds that look like lovely things. I have only loved a few times and the last time was when you rubbed my neck under the monkey bars. We weren’t much younger than we are now. I still have the same haircut. You still have only one dimple. It’s on your left cheek and it looks like you fell on a pebble. I love that it looks like you fell on a pebble. Let me say this: You taste like candy canes. There was a candy cane tree in my old neighborhood. My neighbor hung candy canes on the branches of the willow and I snatched them in the middle of the night. It was December when I rode my bike the quickest, like I was going somewhere to meet you. I like you more than the candy cane tree. Let me say this: I am uncomfortable in my own skin, so I hold your face. I hold your face and your hips but mostly your face. You have a lovely face. Let me say this: I love you like monsters like scaring little kids. I make a list of words I can use to diagram your body: petite, mellifluous, comely, milk, necessary. Please, forgive the humming; you see I rarely taste candy canes in March. When I don’t taste you I taste sweat. Not good sweat, mind you, sweaty sweat from the men’s locker room. Sometimes I taste pizza, but that’s only because I loved pizza first. Let me say this: My love for pizza was fleeting. I was young and naive and thought that extra toppings meant something. These are fine days because they end with you. Let me just say this: I’m going to kiss you until my lips fall off. If my lips don’t fall off, I will kiss up your spine until I run out of spine. Then I’ll start over.