Skin

Humor. Skill. Whit. Sex Appeal. In that order.

I'm telling you you're everything, but I'm still not sure what your stereotype is. The tilt of your head at "darling" or your steel jaw of all things sexy and your hand that rubs it the right way.

You've been making my knees feel more like knees and sometimes making me forget I have knees at all. It's keeping me from my church meetings I so desperately need because it seems I'm going insane.

I was watching you sleeping the other night. No, not in that way. In the way I could sit next to you on a night where I could see the moon and hear our skin and admire nothing else than your chest rising and falling on the warmest part of the earth beside me.

It was in that moment, I wondered what my voice sounded like to your ears. Or if you knew I have your heartbeat on an mp3 because it passes the time when I'm waiting for you to come over. Just come over. Would you please come over.

Let me lay on your chest until that mp3 of it's rising and falling syncs to my lack of conscience in this moment.

Hold my hand until I have new finger prints.

Let me explore you until I know where your kisses fit on the pH scale.

I'm trying to be poetic because I'm trying to tell you the truth. That I love you. That I love you in all clarity and morale of the sentence.

You and me. Everyday.