I like women who are all soft corners. Tricky, you know, pretending to be made up of edges but really full of fluff and heart and all the things that make little girls nice and grown women sexy.
I like the ones who push back when I push, who pull up when I try to go down, and who tumble me all over the place, turn me left, slip me right, and lodge deep in the hidden crevasses of the many chambers of my heart.
I like banter, words meant to enflame, to tease, to percolate thoughts, to induce tremors far south, and to quake the very senses. I like the ones who whisper to me, who gift me those words, those rearranged letters, and leave inkstains underneath my collars and my cuffs.
I like the ones who are real, who are made up of starstuff and comets and flakes of gold, diamond, lapis lazuli, amber, jade, sapphires, bloodstones, coltan, marble, granite, the earth—the ones who are made of the very things on which we place our feet and raise our hands in praise to, who bring heaven closer and can make one believe and have faith, for faith is an assured expectation of things hoped for and the ones who are real are the meeting of that assured expectation in the chemical, in the alchemical, in the form of matter that has been shaped just for me, just for me alone.
I like you.