Para recordar. Or, we weren’t going to date this summer, but since we kind of are I’m going to do it right 

It’s been about 3 minutes since I left your door. I started writing about 15 minutes ago, when we started saying goodnight. Making mental notes, they always say writing things down helps you memorize.

I want to memorize your smell, I know that’ll go first. And then slowly your touch, your kiss. The feeling of your nose on my cheek as you breathe me in, evaporating me.

There are days that I go outside and am so amazed. I look up and thank God for letting the sky he created, the soft blue, grace my presence. I look into your eyes, the same blue but more rich, more consistent, and feel more than that. I never want to forget the little gold in your eyes, so small yet so significant: the sun in the sky.

Your dimples, GOD, your dimples. All 85 of them and the 3 that are my favorite, the three that poke in after you’re smiling but right before you show your teeth, flattering your jawline that I love to kiss.

Laying on the floor “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you” as I can’t help falling in love with you. Pressed up against your wall. Pushed off your lap to the floor. On my tiptoes.

I love you feels like it never has before. I don’t want to say it casually. I don’t want to remove the I and hang it on the end of a phone call or a snapchat caption. I don’t want to say it unless I can look in your eyes while I do it and kiss you immediately after. I left your door for the last time but I still picture the blue. I still picture your lips once those three words leave mine. After all, isn’t that what these notes are for?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s