How daring of me, Loving you the way I love you. Having to look at you twice to convince me that you really exist.
How foolish to have ever thought that there might be an improved version of you. When your imperfect humanity is what makes you a being from another world. Your heart, beating at two speeds. Your skin, dotted with stars. Your mind, vertiginous, absorbing that newly released world.
What impertinence of mine to let you eat the end of my chocolate ice cream. And even the beginning, depriving me of its freshness, offering you its sweetness.
What insolence of mine to run to your help in the dark night when you cry and cuddle you in my chest to give you my warmth and give you back the calm you lost in that incubus. And sleep on foot so that my heart can sing a lullaby into your ear.
How brave of me to let you sneak on my bed and share my pillow and challenge statistics that say that the cold of an empty room is the best method to be the adult you should become, instead of the shelter of my arms. What should I know? Surely, nothing. Probably, everything. About you, at least.
And how ridiculous to have ever thought that you could not love me anymore, tired of my kisses.
How lucky me, loving me the way you do Ioving you the way I do.