No matter the pronoun I use, it is the exact one I speak of.
His hands intertwined within mine are like leaves on a tree tied together with a branch. There's that bond, that if left becomes broken and they fall apart, one becoming bare and the other becoming torn.
His skin on mine as we lay together, it reminds me of a mid-summers day. The softness of a picnic blanket and the warmth of the newly risen sun.
His lips, lips that taste like candy, one that reminds me of my childhood and it's somewhat lovely moments of peace, honesty, and love.
His, Him, He.
The three words that make me look and say, "Shut up and kiss me" because if I don't I'm afraid I'll fall like the leaves, loose sense of nature, and forget what real happiness is.
Shut up and kiss me, please, just shut up and kiss me.
Another poem by the original Cassandra, however, none of them are as great as they will become.