So many times I wonder how I got so lucky. Just staring at your hand resting casually against my hip while you sleep — I get shivers and can’t stop kissing you. You don’t even know I’m kissing you because you’re so deep into Neverland.
I love smelling the carbon dioxide you exhale. I actually time my breaths so when you’re breathing out, I’m breathing in.
When you tell me I make you happy… nothing compares to that. You see me literally squirm in happiness because there’s too much inside; I’m like Blanka wagging her tail when we get home from work. It’s the same feeling I get when you squeeze my thigh while you drive instead of slapping it and pinching it. It’s the same feeling I get when you really kiss me instead of licking my face with your stinky tongue, or blow a raspberry when our lips touch.
I guess it’s a good thing you act like such a nincompoop 98% of the time. If you were any sweeter, I’d just fucking die.
Too Much Happy in My Body,