I love all ways about people that do not make sense.
The reason behind what makes someone shy. Why we find comfort in the people, surroundings, opiates, and materials that we do. Why facades of false appearances and hiding behind technologies are our mere crutch and inoculation.
The way bursting oneself in a career or engulfment of a self-proclaimed wife role to a man that does not officially claim you as so.
I weirdly love consuming my mind with wracking questions and concerns of the hearts that are dear as well as those estranged.
I am also narcissistically good at it.
Conversationally making them most shelled souls place every insecurity, worry, and fear into my palms without regret.
I say this only because this is an aptitude by nature. A disposition to be eventually mirrored by one that I will have the opportunity to declare union with.
One who makes every internalized ponder not feel burdensome. When I ramble late at night, he knows that I am fighting sleep. Any sober call past my bedtime being indication to one of my self-diagnosed narcoleptic drives home.
A reflection to the way I treat others.
One with a kind, thoughtful heart yet carries a slightly murky, yet humorous sarcastic like-minded banter.
The type of stimulation I love, but also my biggest demise.
Those light the most cauterizing flame within me.
Excite a craving that only one week without a sushi meal could bring on.
I love those prior to a single lip lock and before pressing my goose-bumped skin against theirs.
Not even butterflies ignite.
He will know by the lower-lip bite, in attempts to hide my biggest grin.
Because, screw that. I cannot give away all of my secrets.
Another tequila-pineapple, please.