You smiled at me, and your little sister peered over the back of the couch and kissed you on the side of your face, and your collar was hanging open, and for a moment (and every moment since) I thought that those should be my lips.
You smiled at me, as your fingers plucked the strings of an engaging guitar, and your smile was so knowing that for a moment (and every moment since) I thought that that should be your fingers on my skin, holding my hand and hugging me tight.
You didn’t see me, but I saw you and thought you looked dashing, until you ran your hands carelessly through your hair, and then for a moment (and every moment since) I thought that those should be my hands, or else your hands in my hair.
Sometimes, thinking of you, I can’t even breathe.
