Bubble

It's funny.
You stay silent, keep your mouth shut tight, when inside you're saying all the little things you really can't, because it's too soon, it's too fast, it's not right, it's too selfish.

You watch his face as he laughs, and you tell yourself there have been better, more beautiful faces before, but only this one you can watch for hours and never get tired of the creases in his cheeks when he smiles too long at your foolishness.

You are a fool around him. You don't care.

You are a fool for him.

And in your head, there are all these crazy little words that long to bubble to the surface every time he runs his hands down your "endless" legs and asks you where you've been all his life.

You hold him close a little too long, your playfullness turning into exhaustion, when your head is too heavy to hold up high, and all you want to do is hide in the warmth of his shoulders, press your lips to his neck, take in the smell, and whisper:
"Please don't go."

But now it's too soon, too fast, not right, too selfish to say it out loud, and you pray the day will never come when these crazy little words will bubble to the surface.