Lost

I like it when she talks
I like the way her hands fly through the air, animating, orchestrating a ballad of colourful characters, each word accompanied with a swoop or sway or swing or charade.
I like the way her face vivifies as she speaks;
I like the way her eyes ignite, wild flares of delight, a world brimming with bliss behind each hazel iris. I could gaze into the welcoming warmth of her eyes for an eternity - I would if I could.
I love her voice, but as I listen it soon fades into a sweet symphony of soft nothings, and before long I'm lost, lost in the dreamy embrace of her face and her eyes, and space and time is frozen in place, sublime,
But I like it.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
Then the dimples appear, summoning a chorus of giggles, and my skin wriggles with tickles and pins and needles. My stomach knots as the butterflies flutter by and my mind whirs in muttered surprise,
My heart pounds, and my lips dry,
struggling to invent a line in time, struggling to contain my inner cries to remind her I live in blessed times now she's mine.
Because her laugh makes my skin buzz, my mind fuzz, and if I speak there's a chance that I'll mess it up.
So I say nothing.
I answer with a smile, and she replies with her own, and continues her tall tales and anecdotes.
Her hands resume their dance, and I'm lost in my trance of euphoric romance;
Her eyes revitalize, back alive, enlightened, a gateway to hazy horizons and shining diamonds.
And she talks.
And I listen.
And I like it.