"You are so pretty." I watch him blush. He squirms, so uncomfortable does he feel being complimented. I don't intend to ease my devotion.
"You are so kind. You keep me safe." He needs to know, I think. Turning his head, he looks at me now.
I draw my finger along his forehead, down his nose and lips and chin. He smiles. "Thank you."
I need him to understand. My compliments feel inadequate to describe what he makes me feel. I think to myself:
Your hands is what I would sculpt if I were an ancient Greek artist. Each and every vein.
Would I just be a painter, I could recreate the colour of your eyes when they are hit by sunlight during golden hour.
Would I just be a better writer to do my thoughts about you justice. If I could just write them out without shame.
But my love for you scares me. I don't dare to let myself be overcome for I might not recover. So, all that is left to do is telling you, over and over, what you deserve to hear.