I can write about you for hours and hours and hours. The taste of your mouth, swollen and red like white fleshed peaches, the thickness of your brow and the way you sigh. I can fill a hole page - a whole book about you. The way you look, the way you smell; sweet and floral and naturally enveloping
I could write so much it'll overlapand then it'll start to look like this - the book, I mean. It'll start to get hard to read and suddenly it'll get a bit like this, but I know what i'm writing - because it's about you and i've remembered everything about you that I could
like how you laugh so loud, unabashed and in a way that should be so so annoying but it isn't because
it's you and i love you more than i love myself, which isn't much in itself because it's me. but you, oh god, you! the way your
lashes kiss your cheeks makes me die a small death every time, and I can't make sense of why you should ever be sad; why you should ever make those beautiful lashes clog and clump together with sal because you should love yourself. i think i love you too much, because i'm trying to think of something else but all i can think about is
you. you. you. you you you you you you you you you you you you you
you