Love should feel like the top of three pillows and the bottom of four blankets on a lazy Saturday morning. It’s where time stops and the world gladly sits on hold and the only thing that matters is that you continue to breathe in moment after crawling moment.
Love should feel like a nook made just for one, where under their arms and over their chest comprises a sanctuary only you can fit in. It’s where you worship their pores and pray for their happiness and are blessed with an overwhelming presence of bliss no organized religion can give you.
Love should feel like a molotov cocktail. It should explode when they throw you down on a bed and burn when they leave you for a busy workday and be as unpredictable as the combinations that comprise your very being.
Love should feel like a middle school dance, where nerves…
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