Prose On Your Tongue

"I've seen love for a minute, you know?" I say quickly, stupidly, loosely. His eyes glide over to mine, and I can't hold back what I've been wanting to say for years now. "And I realized - right? - that it's not that - that - swelling in your chest o-or-r those jitters in the tips of your fingers." I swallow hard to catch my breath, realizing that he's still listening (intently, almost), and my heart is crying out for me to finish. Just finish. "It's - it's the dip in your clavicle, th-the-e indents on your lower back, even the prose on your tongue. Love is . . . love is, to me, the way your eyes are burning a message in mine and, no matter the message you're putting across, I can feel everything inside of me still begging for you."

When he still says nothing, I know I have to end this with some kind of bold finality. So, to make it simple, my fingers cascade over the chaffed knuckles of his, and I say, softly, "I love you."