You are not my boyfriend. We are not in a relationship. But you are no stranger either.
Every moment spent with you is a gift in itself. I remember the times I would walk by you and for a few seconds, yours eyes would meet mine. It was so small and insignificant, but it warms my heart and I couldn’t help but give you the slightest smile. We spent some nights beneath the stars, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. I told you my favorite color, and you told me yours. I showed you the scars on my body those years of struggle have left. You kissed each and every one of them, and told me I was beautiful. I confided in you about the men that have come and gone, how I was hurt once before, and how quickly I leave those who come too close. You smiled and wrapped your arms around my body, and like your silly self, you began to sing to me. You are a terrible singer, but you said you sang just to hear me laugh. And you were right, it did. I am weird and peculiar, and you laugh at my clumsiness and call it cute. Your laughter is warm and dorky, and I would succumb to my awkwardness a thousand times over just to hear that sound again. I told you secrets of my family, my plans for the future, and my demons of the present. You laid there listening intently, and not once did your perfect green eyes stray away from mine. You were always such a wonderful listener.
I am not your girlfriend. What you and I share has no title and need no labels. It is simple, honest, and candid. I enjoy your presence and you enjoy mine. What we have is absolutely exquisite.
You are absolutely exquisite.