Confessing Again

Every time I think I’m over you, I’m under you again. All it takes is for you to throw a glance at me and I melt like butter in a pan. I lose control like a bad driver in the rain. I start talking without thinking, senselessly blabbing on and on until I say something smart or funny that makes you laugh. My friends say I can’t stop making up songs about girls. The truth is I can’t stop making up songs about you. Whenever I want to sing, all that comes to mind is your face, and your eyes, and that amazing way of dressing you have. Honestly, whenever I think you can’t look any hotter, you do, and there I go again. If your eyes and lips weren’t reason enough to get completely and utterly distracted, the way your hair moves when you turn your head is reason enough for my mind to completely leave my body. I find myself in a trip so frequently described by other writers of older books in which all i can think about is getting up from my seat, grabbing you and kissing you for hours on end. We could, of course, take quick breaks to drink some water or eat something, but immediately after we would kiss. People would uncomfortably ask us to stop and we would blow them off and continue. I can’t stop imagining myself going to the zoo with you, walking around, talking. I enjoy you just as much as a gardener enjoys the smell of fresh-cut grass. I desire you just as much as a cat desires a rough surface. I miss you just as much as a castaway misses a big piece of steak. I miss you and you haven’t  been mine.


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