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Personal Note:

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Poem

I like it when she talks
I like the way her hands fly through the air, animating, orchestrating a ballad of colourful characters, each word coupled with a swoop or sway or swing or charade.
I like the way her face vivifies as she speaks;
I like the way her eyes ignite, wild flares of delight, a world brimming with bliss behind each hazel iris.
I could gaze into the welcoming warmth of her eyes for an eternity - I would if I could.
I love her voice, but as I listen it soon fades into a sweet symphony of soft nothings, and before long I'm lost, lost in the dreamy embrace of her face and her eyes, and space and time is frozen in place, sublime, 
and I like it.
She pauses, and I'm found again.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
Then her dimples appear, summoning a chorus of giggles, and my skin wriggles and tickles with pins and needles. My stomach knots, brimming with butterflies, and as they flutter and fly my mind whirs in stuttered surprise, my heart pounding, my lips dry.
Because her laugh makes my mind fuzz, and her touch makes my skin buzz, and when her cheeks blush I get goosebumps, and if I speak there's a chance I'll mess this up. 
So I say nothing.
I answer with a smile, and she replies with her own, and continues her tall tales and anecdotes.
Her hands resume their dance, and I'm lost in my trance of euphoric romance,
Her eyes revitalize, back alive, enlightened, a gateway to hazy horizons and shining diamonds.
And she talks.
And I listen.
And I like it.

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