Flex
She said she dated me because I had words when other men didn't. She said she fell for me because I had words that teased and taunted and tickled her. Words she had to think about for more than two seconds. Words she had to turn over and check for references and entendre and insight.
She liked the ones I wrote and the ones I spoke aloud.
She said I made her feel things she didn't think she was capable of. Like lust for a human in real life, or the desire for a man to rub her butt.
It took two whole years before she admitted that she thought was asexual, rather than demisexual, and for her to admit that her brain liked my words first.
And then her body followed.
I utterly love her. I love her like I love my life But that insufferable cliche is insufficient for the sentiment. I've loved her even, and especially, when I didn't love my own life.
Writing is a skill. A muscle to be clenched and relaxed. Trained and built. She likes a lot of my muscles. I love her.
When I sat down, I thought of this like a stretch for that muscle. Like touching my toes or wrapping my arm in front of my chest. Like normal though, my clearest thoughts are my second and third.
This isn't a stretch.
This? All of this? This is a Flex
Find shorter thoughts at https://c.im/@NaClKnight