Most- if one were to measure.

She loves him most when he loses his laid-back composure... mostly because it gives way to his eccentricities that are carefully tucked behind crooked smiles and charismatic grins.

She loves him most when he 's  fatigued from a days work but is unable to wipe the deliriously faint smile of joy off his lips. The same smile that he presses to her forehead before bed.

She loves him most when his anger gets the most of him and he's too far gone to even understand it all but he anchors onto her.

She loves him most when his eyes are filled to the brim in consternation and he knows not what to do. So he slips between the sheets in silence- retreating into himself and turns his back to her.

Oh, she loves him alright but she knows to give him a certain level of space despite the proximity of their limbs. She also knows, that sometime in the evening she'll find her way pressed into his back with her hand resting on his stomach.

Oh, damn, does she love him.

More introspection is needed. I need to fuckin asses myself everyday. I don't like the way things are going. For fuck's sake I need to- check myself. I'm spiraling out of control.

Will you let me discover you and figure out your quirks? Will you be able to share your woes if at all to at least have voiced them to someone like me? Maybe it isn't me who you'll let in but whoever it is I hope she'll  treasure it.

He fancied his memory of her to be that of the whimsical sort- layered with sickeningly sweet evenings and  the warmth of their bed. A fucking fairy tale that had flipped into a Grimm's tale.

I worried that maybe it'd be easy

for me to care too much about you. 

So I kept you at an arms length away.

That just didn't work and you were more

than endearing enough to wiggle pass that.

Damn it.

I knew this would happen.

She thinks maybe he's just one of those men that knows how to make a woman smile just so.  Enough to tease her and have her shyly look away.

She fancies that he's the type that takes pleasure in the tinkle of a giggle as he pulls her near. Or maybe it's a choppy guffaw or snort that she let's loose. But he likes it all the same because it's the smile that lingers that shines through. It's all that's remarkably her and no one else in that moment.

She thinks he's the type and maybe just maybe she deserves this sort of sweet attention every once and a  while.

I think I'm infatuated with the idea of you. It certainly doesn't feel like we're friends when we hang out. But maybe that's just me. Or maybe that's because I have yet to let my guard down fully when I'm with you. Or something like that.

I think it's just me though, who's on the side awkwardly toeing the line of attraction I feel. Me, who over thinks things and who's usually good with conversation but horrendous when I feel any sort of attraction towards someone. Me who's usually the type to confront someone I care because- I care. But, also, me who's scared of the potential of caring too much that I get hurt.
Where is the courageous me?

Right now?

Balled up in the corner of my couch- watching golden girls.