Welcome To My Bed

A kiss is a question.

I am constantly reminding him not to make promises he cannot keep.

Forever is a promise. New York is a promise. Los Angeles is a promise. Next winter is a promise. Holding me is a promise. And telling me that he's never felt this way before is the best and worst promise there is. Every second is loaded with intent, the intent that will determine how hard I fall for him, but every kiss is an exception. Every time he kisses me, it is tentative, as if he's waiting for me to break my promises as well.

We're in love in a way that's getting there. There are no words to describe intermediate perfection. All I know to do is smile and hold my breath.

I'm really hoping he keeps his promises.