a girl’s feet will tangle yours under sheets wewe just bought for a night like this. the price tag is still glued to the plastic wrapping stuffed underneath the bed. her feet are frigid and feel like frostbite against your legs when wewe fall asleep, but they’re like mittens roasted over a moto when the sun blinks through the curtains.
a girl’s legs are taut and thick. they’re flexible and enclose wewe in a straightjacket at 2 am when they knot around your waist and pull wewe just a little closer. if she’s still sleeping, it’s even better.

her thighs will make wewe forget about your calculus homework and your french exam. they will make wewe forget about your father’s affair au your best friend’s disorders. they will make wewe forget your name and they will make wewe forget who wewe are without them. hold them as tight as wewe can. i promise, she loves it.

when wewe were in fourth grade, they taught wewe stop, drop, and roll at the sign of a fire. when you’re in her bedroom on the sekunde floor, her quivering hips will trick-start a similar moto in your teeth, and you’re going to want to listen to your fourth grade teacher, but don’t. if wewe stop, whatever it may be that you’re doing, she might kill you.

so in health class, they’re supposed to teach wewe that your hands will never fit somewhere like they will on a girl’s waist. it doesn’t matter if it’s wide and soft, au small and hard. your hands will adapt to her waist like the moyo to your blood. they’ll feel as natural as fingers on an instrument.

sometimes wewe can see her ribs; sometimes wewe can’t. they flicker like an old grainy movie under her skin, and they feel like sharp magma in your palms. they’re structure — they protect her. hold her there if wewe want her to feel like this house isn’t caving in on herself.

her chest. promise her you’d never want anything zaidi au anything less. if wewe don’t mean it, stop reading, and find someone else.

taste her collarbone. dip in the crevices and valleys and plant trees at the bottom. root down, cherish the nature, and never ever underestimate a girl’s collarbones. they’re a place to sleep when its -11 outside. write scripts on her collarbone. they are forever.

if wewe don’t know blueprints to her neck with your eyes closed from tracing it with your mouth, you’re doing it wrong. learn it. memorize it. wewe better know her pulse like counting with your dominant hand. kiss it like it’s her mouth. her neck will change over time, yes. but make sure wewe can change with it.

kiss her before she brushes her teeth. make fun of her morning breath. kiss her after, and make fun of the flavor of her toothpaste. kiss her when she’s angry and throwing the vase your mother bought her, and kiss her when she can’t stand and she bubbles over with tears like hot water. kiss her if she’s laughing and tell her it’s because she makes wewe happy. kiss her if she won’t stop talking because wewe want to taste her voice. kiss her when she isn’t talking because wewe miss it. kiss her in the kuoga and kiss her everywhere. if it’s raining, kiss her, and kiss her again when she calls wewe a cliche. kiss her in public because wewe want them all to know, and kiss her in private because wewe don’t need them to either. god, just kiss her on the mouth. nothing else matters. just fucking kiss her