Hello again, it’s me LC. You’ve probably read my other works, but this one is an improvement. I am very proud of it. Why? Because this is about romance and-SHOCKER-nobody dies. Ooh and aah for me people! The sad thing is that as I was writing, I came to notice that I actually did like the guy I was convincing myself that I didn’t like more than I gave myself credit for. Anyways, here’s how to see stuff through my eyes at this moment. Enjoy!

You look at someone and then you just feel all nice inside and all you want to do is put your head on his shoulder and fall asleep, listening to his gentle breathing. You don’t want to move, you just want to watch him, to be his. You want him to want you. You just want to cry it’s so nice sometimes. You just want to cry sometimes because it’s so frustrating, yet you love every minute of it. You just want to melt into him, just crawl right up to him, curl up in a ball, and then feel his arms around you, snug, not relaxed, but not tense, just comfortably snug, and then you want to just roll your head over and talk about nothing in particular, but you don’t want it to be silent. You want to tell him how much his eyes make you melt on the inside. You just want. You want so many things. You want to be open with each other, to be able to tell the other person exactly how you feel. You want to feel wanted, and when they say just the right thing, it just fits right into your heart and you want to cry, for no reason than just the sudden urge for him to put his arms around you. You just want to be held and then collapse. You want to feel the happy tears roll down your face. And sometimes you want the blissful asphyxiation of a kiss. You want to do everything you can to impress them. You want to do nothing but sit there again, for the rest of your life when you’re alone. You want to moan about life and then listen as that other person tells you how life isn’t bad. You want to just listen to his voice. You want to memorize the way his voice quiets, but doesn’t whisper, to feel the gentle edges of the words. You want to put his picture somewhere that you can see it when you can’t see him for real. You just gaze at it in mystery and awe because you won’t dare to do it in real life. You try to memorize the thin, dark, coffee-color in his eyes, or the shards of green within them. You’ll be looking at his brown eye’s one day, and then the next be looking at this beautiful cornucopia of broken green glass in his eyes the next. You just want to just put your cheek on his when you see it, or maybe you want to memorize the exact way his face curves, or the way his eyebrows slant, or how his lips tug themselves up over his teeth when he smiles. Maybe you’ll recall the exact color of his hair, or the precise tone of his skin. You’ve memorized all of his favorite clothes by now, I’m sure. You can close your eyes and been able to re-orchestrate his face behind your eyelids; just so you don’t have to spend a moment away from it. Yet every morning you go through your day to find that you didn’t get it quite right, because human memory can never amount to the real thing. You have been able to listen to his voice and can almost play them back to you. And it’s frustrating, but it’s a blissful suffering. And come on. What’s love got to do with it?