Perfect Storm

Storms rage in his green eyes, but his smile could be seen through hurricanes. His shoulders sway and his waist curves and he doesn’t even know that I notice. He puts a finger to his uneven lips and I’m jealous. His freckles dance in morning light, and I’d try and fail to count him. His tousled bedhead fury of hair is the very skyline I wish to wake to every morning. He’s everything I wish to wake to every morning.

I imagine what it sounds like to have him whisper in my ear. To feel my breath catch at the ideas he plants there. I wonder too often what it feels like to have him brush up against me as I stand at the kitchen sink. I wish repeatedly that I could be the lucky one to know. I would sell my very soul to be the lucky one to know.

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