Sometimes I think about what your hand might feel like in mine—how your fingers would slot between mine. I imagine the softness of your knuckles, the warmth in your palm. I would hold it like a vow.

And a kiss—God, a kiss. One of those slow, aching kisses that linger behind the ribs. I want to kiss you like I'm learning a language with my mouth and you're the only word I know. I want to press my forehead to yours in the quiet, let our noses bump and lips brush as I whisper sweet words to you. I want to give you a kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting more (I wouldn't want you to say you want more, though. I would want to see that look in your eye that begs for me). I want to touch you. I yearn to. I want to explore every orifice of your body, my angel. I want to trace all of your curves—I want to be so touchy with you. I want to roam my hands over every part of you until I remember your body better than my own. I wouldn't be able to help myself. I love you so much.