I like writing love songs to you. I doodle them in the margins of my notebook, on my hand, on the soles of my shoes. I’m not sure if you see, but sometimes your mouth flickers in such a way, I believe you must know.
I like watching romantic movies with you. I cuddle up to your body (it’s always warmer than mine), and you don’t look at me but you put your arm over my frail shoulders like you believe I won’t break, and for a moment, I think I won’t too.
I like reading love poetry to you. I like the way the words taste on my tongue, the way your eyes shine when I deliver a stanza like flowers, when my mouth (nothing like yours) manages the delicate nature of the sounds.
I like doing romantic things with you. I like coffee in Indie Cafes, running in the rain, going to concerts, seeing cheesy movies, driving to the desert in the middle of the night. I like dancing with you, doing your make up, having snowball fights in winter and water fights in summer.
So why don’t I like being in love with you?
