How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?
Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her stupid. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.
“That’s all right,” she says, and I have to wonder how many times she’s said that to the people in her life who screwed her over somehow.
You make me feel loved but you don’t make me feel beautiful. I know that that may not be possible. But I want to feel wanted. And when you check out other women in front of me it does hurt. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect you to suddenly stop finding other people attractive. I just want you to want me more. Agh I don’t know.