You are feeling electric all over your body, so you need to free write. Get it out.
Write as if you’re leaking ink from fingertips. As if your body were a canvas, tattooed in an unknown language, and you’re bleeding it out here. Flooding down from the tip of your head, along your neck, through your shoulder sockets and forearms and wrists until they separate into your fingers, trickle out of your fingernails and splatter here.
You think the feeling of infatuation—that sneaking, tingly feeling that poses as love—is actually the seeds of hope being planted along each nerve.
As if tiny spades are digging careful divots into your skin, opening up your nervous system, and dropping sweet seeds of expectation. And they shiver and grow and tremble along your flesh.
And you’re so sensitive to touch.
You are shocked to remember how striking he is. Standing a foot from you, a soft hand in yours, eyes like glacier ice.
You forgot that his attraction is all animation.