Dec. 19, 2003 @ 12:04 a.m.

It’s cute how your cheek seems to bend to my finger, caressing and embracing it. Your eyes float around like a drug addict’s every time my skin comes into contact with yours. I’m sure the butterflies in your stomach fly around like little angels who have chemical greases emitting from their skin like fish, so that sliding around in the heated, internal liquid becomes less of a problem, even for wings. Wings made of soft feathers that tickle the lining of your stomach. Your hair brushing aside, following the direct path of my hand flowing over your skin, close to your eyes as the soft scraping sound goes unnoticed through stares behind the curtains of dead, pigmented fibers that society is so obsessed with making sure is clean, non-oily and perfectly displayed daily. You do a good job and I've never been so enthralled to play with something dead like I am with your hair. Allow me to let you in on something: You are never as beautiful as when I wake up in the night to see you asleep on my chest. Never as beautiful as in the morning as you brush your teeth, hair messed and fused like a lost little girl's, in need of care, a mirror and a hairbrush. If I come over one more time to see you studying in those pj’s of yours, the tank top chosen based strictly for comfort and hair tossed up, up and away without care with a pencil and minimal effort...it won’t be soon enough that I can rush over to kiss you. And I hope you never, ever, grow tired of that.