I trace his lip lightly with the tip of my finger. It pouts slightly, and I have such an urge to bite it, to kiss it, to wrap us up in a quilt and listen to our gentle breathing, watching the cotton ripple like skipping stones and sharing crooked smiles. His lip feels slightly chapped under my feather light touches but I simply cannot bring myself to give a damn. I gaze so intently at each divot of that lip, as if it could map out ancient seas and college plans and tell me everything I don't know. And I don't want to look up. Because if I look up, I may find myself at the mercy of questioning eyes, pleading, begging to know what I was doing, and I'm not at liberty to say because I simply do not know. "Do I love you?" I cannot form an answer with my lips because I am so focused on yours.
T
