It's four o'clock in the morning and I'm thinking of you.
It's four o'clock in the morning and I feel like sleep is unattainable.
What am I doing, you might ask in that deep, husky voice?
Thinking of you.
There has never been a single day to go by where I don't think of you. Not once.
Of your curly, blonde hair; your piercing, blue eyes; your full, rosy lips.
I want to kiss those lips as hard as I might possibly be able to. And stare straight into those eyes and find myself getting lost in the mystery that is you. And tangle my fingers so deep into those curls that I may never set them free.
I want to lie down beside you on a blanket in the middle of the field where the power lines run, feel the buzz of the alcohol we stole and drank from your parent's liquor cabinet, smell the cologne you sprayed on your t-shirt in the past morning, hear the barks and howls of the untamed animals off into the distance, feel the heat of this southern summer we are all caught up in, and watch the stars in the sky.
They are almost as beautiful as you.