"If I were an element on the periodic table," you say, "which would I be?"
I meet your upside-down gaze. You're lying belly-up on my bed, your head hanging off the end and your hair pooling on the carpet.
Scrambling for a reason, I nudge my notebook away and turn, straddling my desk chair backwards. You continue to stare, owlish in your attention. "Must there be a why?"
Chin on wrist on chairback. "You are
"That's cheating." You blink slowly. "Elemental neon is not inherently colorful."
"Let me think then."
Owl eyes give silent assent.
Some things end up meaning so much to you. You didn't even blink that time I nearly broke my hand when knuckles met wall stud in a fit of misplaced rageno, you grabbed me by the belt loops and skillfully incapacitated me, closing the bedroom door with your shoulder. Somehow, though, this means more to you.
"You," I begin. You sit up on the bed.
"Are." I slowly roll the chair over to you, the plastic wheels catching on the carpet.
For a minute you simply look at me.
"Really?" You lean your elbows on the back of the chair, eyes impossibly huge. "Why?"
" My fingers work their way into the warm tangle of your hair. "And delicate. And, under the right circumstances
" I pull you into a soft, brief kiss. "You melt at room temperature."