The February Boy

When I first met you my cheeks were dotted with paint and yours with stubble. I was nervous but you appeared confident and languid. My perfume was antique, laid against the exposed flesh of my chest and the insides of my wrists. You spoke with a tone that drew me in, you exuded something to be fascinated by.

I think I started to fall in love with the way you made me feel on that Friday night in February, my soul started to feel sleepy and comfortable around you. The drive up the hills was magical, soft tunes were the soundtrack to our love, compelling and cute. A simple homage to all the great loves before ours. I can still recall the feeling that your large hand left on my thigh, like fire and ice and wind and water all detonated right then and there, trying to tell me that you were the one. I long to have my lips pressed into the supple skin of your neck, everything felt so right when they were. We talked about everything and nothing that night, it wasn’t awkward or painful it was serene.

I could taste smoke in your mouth and you could taste strawberries in mine and even though you’re allergic, it didn’t seem to matter to you. Your intelligence caught me off guard, a boy so sweet and smart was a deadly combination for a hopeless romantic. I think you understood me though, when I said that I was shy and unlovable, a glaze of memories in the deep pools of brown. You were the first boy I loved with brown eyes, all of them before had been blue. I saw you get angry that night and it shocked me. I couldn’t believe that someone so peaceful could get an angry flush to their face. But I watched it happen right in front of me. It scared me for a second until you turned and your lips, not your hand made contact with my temple. I sighed a breath of relief and un-tensed my body, euphoria at your fingertips overwhelming my senses.

I had another thought that night, that maybe you would turn out just like the rest and I suppose you still could but at this point I have little doubt in my mind that it’s at all possible. You inspire me to write and to create works of art. Your deep eyes and soothing voice, a muse to the paintings and poems that will no doubt follow this one. I love when I get random whiffs of your cologne, I would ask you what scent it is but I don’t want to become obsessed. I crave your touch and your gaze and your soft tone murmuring lyrics across the bench in the front of your truck.

I kept scooting closer to you that night, wanting to absorb your warmth and your love, hoping that you felt the same way too. Some part of me wonders how many girls have fallen in love with you, seeing as it was so easy for me to do so that first night. I’m pretty sure I knew you were the one when you called some nights ago, your timing off but your intentions sweet as could be. I remember picking up and not even knowing what I wanted to hear. At this point all I can say is how you make me feel.

You make me feel like sneaking out at midnight in July and cruising down the freeway, your music playing through your shitty speakers and your large hand on my thigh. You make me feel like going to a party, my makeup and my mouth both smoky, your arm wrapped around my waist. You make me feel like walking around downtown at night, pretty lights ablaze, our hands intertwined and coffees held in our free ones.

You make me feel like laying in bed, my back pressed against you, a dumb movie playing your fingers tangled in my hair, your lips on my neck. I don’t even care what we do as long as we are doing it together.

I don’t want to be the girl that breaks your heart and makes it hard for you to trust again. I have no intentions of kissing your best friend or being an asshole to your family. Let’s just be in love.