That guy.

He's pretty great, actually.
He's tall. He laughs with me. Even when it's not funny. Even when it's just so I'm not laughing alone. It's a great laugh. Nothing high and squeaky, nothing with a guffaw. It's pretty great.
He's got these brownish eyes. Hazel for real, not like mine, which are lies. Perfect eyebrows. Smile with no fangs.
He gives me all the little things without thinking. He lets me choose everything. I abuse that, actually.
He reads very, very fast. He thinks Stalin is funny. And Mao. He's smart. He makes his own jokes. He knows how to be quiet right; most people don't know how to be quiet without being resentful quiet or bored quiet or angry quiet. He does the right quiet.
His arms are perfect and he's so warm. He is enough human being to be enfolded in. Which is nice. Which is really nice.
He likes the beach in summer and everywhere else in winter.
I love him at the aquarium. I love him in line for doughboys. I love him at the stove. I love him drunk on the couch. I love him on the ferry.

I love him when he loves me back.

Time until deletion: 12 hours. You have 'til nine am to read this, guy. Then it stops gaying up the internet.