This is for you, assuming you read my stuff. This will be mushy and silly and so frivolous. Kind of perfect for a Sunday night.
It may be a repeat of things that I’ve already told you–most men would roll their eyes at that, say I’m being redundant and girly. It’s a very good thing that you are NOT most men.
You find power and strength and mystery in my extreme-ish femininity and you understand what makes me tick better than almost anyone I’ve encountered, and you did so almost intuitively. You are, without a scrap of doubt, my intellectual superior. I trust you without hesitation–and for that, you will always have my attention, my loyalty, a chunk of my heart (figuratively speaking, of course), my ear, my shoulder, my friendship, my undying gratitude–and a place in my bed.
I want to kiss you. A LOT. Kissing is my favorite. I want to kiss you for hours and hours. I want to kiss you so intensely and for so long that my lips are bruised and swollen. I want to kiss you until I am dizzy from my eyes being closed.
I want to kiss you while the world disappears and all that exists is the feel of you–the texture of your lips, the taste of your spit and your tongue, the absolute smoothness of the inside of your mouth.
But most of all, I want to kiss you, secure in the knowledge that kissing is your favorite and that you want to kiss me too.
ealvfargond 