Sometimes I catch myself smiling, and I don't know why. I'll feel a smirk, edging its way onto my lips and have to stop myself, and its times like that I know I've done the right thing.
Sometimes I close my eyes when we kiss, so sure that he'll taste the hope on my lips, the readiness to give into this feeling.
Sometimes I do something stupid, something purposefully dumb just with the intention of making him laugh, just to see his eyes light up, and its times like these I know I'm in deep. Sometimes when we kiss, I'll have to pull away because I feel dizzy, and suddenly I understand the expression falling in love.
Sometimes at night, I lie on his chest and tell him of the boy who used to beat me, with words that limp out of me, stories I've never fully told anyone. He drums his fingers softly on the base of my spine, in rhythm with his heartbeat, and I can breathe again.
Sometimes he whispers in my ear, "I love you, sweetheart," and I know he's trying too hard to make the words seem romantic, but it doesn't matter because my heart twists a little anyway.
Sometimes he tells me he knows I need him, that he knows me so well, that I could never lie to him. And I say nothing but smile, because the depth of my ability to deceive frightens me. I have never been honest, fully honest, with anyone before and yet this boy smiles at me and tells me what I'm thinking and I have to laugh because he's always right. I say the words inside my head, I need you, and I bite my tongue before they escape, because I cannot say that aloud, I cannot even think them. To need him is to be laid bare, more vulnerable then I've ever been, falling apart at his fingertips and asking him to hold me together.
Sometimes, the palm of his hand running up my spine, he tells me that I am his now and what happened in the past doesn't matter, and won't matter again. The words send a shiver through me, spark a current that courses along my veins and entwines us together, because I believe him. I look away, at the shadows on the wall, who watch but mercifully reserve judgment, because I know he is right, and yet the depth of my ability to be deceived frightens me even more. The first time he said, "I love you," my heart stopped and I thought, no you don't. But then he said it again and I tucked the warmth of the words against my heart, to be taken out again when the coldness of doubt begins to snake back into my blood. "I love you too," I say, and the words slip out, just a wisp of fear tucked inside, and with the words goes my heart. He is not perfect, and I am not perfect, and there are so many things about us that are not perfect that I almost have to laugh. But we're comfortable, and we're new at the same time and I like that. I won't make this more then it is, I won't put any expectations on us, I will not let us drown in the weight of our own potential. But I say that and I think that and I really mean that, and yet we talk about Christmases four years from now, and I have to laugh because when have I ever listened to my own good advice?