You tasted like butterscotch candies, the kind my grandma used to keep. Smooth and sweet. You used to eat them three, four, five at a time. Crinkle-crunch. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
You looked like dark jeans, on display. You wore a faded flannel shirt when we met, and I liked the way you wore it. Sleeves rolled, but like you’d gotten hot, not like you’d looked in the mirror to do it.
You looked — wince with me, here — reassuringly L.L.Bean. I liked outdoorsy, I liked athletic, I liked leggy and lean. You were all of those things. With a long leash looped around one wrist, you looked like the best of fall. The best of all.
You were those things, first. Before you were a little tug.
Come, sit. Stay.
I wanted to save stay. I thought we would be smart to save stay.
You were quiet, commanding. Do you remember? But you were patient, most of all. Patient, but persistently so. (You were bright, you know.) And warm — you were also warm. Warm like sun on my face, for the first time in the longest time. I started to look for you, every morning. Did you know?
I liked the way you smelled: like Bounce dryer sheets, maybe one too many. I liked the way you made me feel — up, down, side to side.
I liked how simple it was, how straightforward it seemed. No games, you said. I liked that. (You knew I’d like that.)
I liked where I fell in your list. What was on your list. I like soccer, I like Sundays, I like sweet old cars. I like books. Bacon. Botched attempts, and you. I really like you.
I liked you too. I liked the way you thought. I liked the way you understood.
“Write because you want to communicate with yourself. Write because you want to communicate with someone else. Write because life is weird and tragic and amazing. Write because talking is difficult. Write because you can. [Write because you can’t.] Write because you’re trying to figure yourself out. Write because you might not ever figure yourself out. Write because there still aren’t enough love poems in the world.” -Dalton Day