You are a minor bad habit.
When I caught myself staring at you for the third time that night, I felt a gravitation towards my clever vice – you facetious being! You winked after everything you said to anyone who would listen.
Jealous curls on your scalp licked your ears. I was warmed by a lock on your neck. You stood there in a dimly lit kitchen that was illuminated with your laughter. I inched closer each time you smiled. I was riveted. I told you every joke I could think of.
You are a moral weakness.
I had a fascination with you that day you took me to the park, and I finally saw you in sublime sunlight. You were nearly a shadow. Your whole body blocked out the brilliancy from the sun, but you were the entire light. I was simply standing in front of you in old shoes and new earrings, and you picked me up so I could reach the monkey bars. When the sun hit my face I could only think, “This is what it feels like to fall,” and you caught me.