you are a blue button down, filled to the brim with smiling, sparkling, brown-eyed boy

she is a small blond girl in a gray sweater. you kissed the top of her head, and she leaned into your arms: smiling, safe, dancing

the man in the front of the room was giving a grand speech about dreams, about the hidden passions we fail to act upon;

i couldn’t stop staring at your hands.

it has been a while since my feet have graced the dance floor. i’m not sure if i remember the way the music sounds, but i know the steps: one-two-three, one-two-three, kiss, linger, leave. it’s muscle memory, it’s clockwork.

often, i think about the one who taught me how to dance. he twirled me around so quickly, it felt like floating, up into the sky, fingertips brushing the clouds. sometimes, i think i’m still dizzy.

you are a warm winter coat, all coziness and comfort and soft, slow smiles and sleepy voices on Sunday mornings

i am a small dark-haired girl who can’t quite figure out how all of her limbs fit together. i would dive off cliffs if it meant i could land in your arms.

you are the very best parts of all the things i should not want

the worst part is, i actually believe you could fix me.