I don't know his habits. I haven't been able to find the wrinkle in his sheets, only the ones on his eyes when we're laughing together. I grow hungry to learn the mapping on his sheets. Plotted points along cotton threads and mangled forms of affection. It's all elementary. He makes me remember adolescence. He is new territory. Past lovers with cerulean tides have washed me onto the land, initiating me to get lost in the forest of his eyes. His skin is like the snow, fair and tends to shiver when I get close. I've yet to decipher these movements. His skin is cold to the touch, but I know behind thick layers of blood, he is warmth. He is love. I sit in my chair, and I observe him more. He moves around the room, dignified and collected. He reminds me of a lion. He reminds me of our animalistic instincts. He reminds me I'm human. He tells jokes. My eyes dart like voyagers through time, through toxic air and straight into his own. There is a war in my mind on whether I could march on for him. His lips are bludgened, red with every crook and valley along the frames. I drink my ruby poison, and my head goes dizzy. It reminds me of how I can't stop staring at his mouth. His mouth that could hold the filaments of my skin between his teeth. I love how he always starts the conversation. He tells me about his dreams, his passions, his wants. I take notes. Precise ones. I memorize them. He reminds me of a 20's man charmer, hair slicked back and smirking as he talks it up. I think he finds joy in how I listen. I'd love to think it makes him feel wise. In an archaic wasteland, I picture us tangled in vines. I can't figure whether we're in love, or just trying to be. He's standing there at the top step. I'm always looking up. Maybe he doesn't want to look down on me, because he holds me in a higher regard than that. A girl is allowed to wonder. I still don't know his habits. In fact, I don't know him at all.

But I know there is something here.