Darling.

When we're at the bar, and the sun is setting outside and lighting up the wooden panels on the walls in soft amber.
And your shirt is picking up the lights in your eyes and you're flashing them all over the place.
And your lips are slightly parted and there's a golden flame of sunlight licking your cheekbones.
And you're fingering the back of my neck lightly, lightly, the way you do.
And that red wine is blooming slowly all the way from my lips to my heart, lighting up deep deep rose gardens.
And your gaze falls onto my collarbones and you say, "I can see your heartbeat". And of course, it beats even faster.
And then, outside, while the last of the fuschia dusk is finally crashing down around us and a light warm drizzle begins to fall. And I look up and can't stand it anymore and kiss you.
And you say you're in a hurry because the footie's gonna start. Or you can't because I'm smokey.
I feel like a giant garbage truck has run me over very sloooowly and tipped itself all over my insides.
And I love you, of course.
But God I hate you when you do that.