I've never been one to stay still,
there was always one hang nail to pick on,
one loose thread to tug.

I like laughing,
I love the way it bubbles up from my stomach to my throat.
Especially when it's caused by you.

I was never good with words under pressure.
I never knew how to phrase myself, so that you knew what I was trying to say.
I'd always trip over my tongue; always too many syllables, always too little breath.

You always knew, though.
What I was trying to say.

You'd hold my hands when I'm picking at my nail beds;
You'd clasp them and I'd be still.
Resting on your shoulder, breathing in the rhythm of your heart beats.

You'd smile your silly smile when I laughed.
You'd say, "your laughter tastes like butterscotch!"
I'd say, "but you don't like butterscotch."
"I like butterscotch now."

You never had to decipher my staccato mumblings to understand me.
You knew that my "I like holding your hands," looked a lot like "I love you" when held under the light.