They no longer make stories like this.
I mean, okay, of course they do. Reality shows try, and they try hard. But behind the scenes of lovebirds twittering about are realities that people don’t want to see, that don’t bring in viewers. Not the sweet conversations, not the volcanic arguments, not the impassioned crying — but the silent hand-holding, the touching of bare skin with tentative fingers, the smiles from across rooms, the silent bidding of hello.
They no longer make stories like this.
No stories of 24-hour quirky conversations, of butterfly kisses on foreheads, eyelids, noses, mouths, cheeks. No stories of blindly fumbling through the dark to weave fingers together — under pillows, behind backs, in front of chests.
They no longer write stories of being scooped up and raucous laughter, of alternately falling from and jumping off of beds, and kisses on parts of bodies which land on the floor (sometimes intentionally, because one yearns for the kiss).
They no longer make stories like this.
Of breakfasts that take forever because every sentence is punctuated by smiles; of cuddles that talk about the most mundane (or don’t talk about them at all), with topics flying by, never settling for more than a moment’s notice — taco trucks, earthworm Jim, Billabong, horchata, Kit Kats, tater tots, blind dates.
Of stretches and massages and hugs from the back; of initial wariness to dance turned into a party of limbs: a twist here, a dip there, chests close together, lips even closer.
They no longer make stories like this.
No looking at imaginary audiences and gushing, hand held at the back, thumbs gently coaxing each other. No imaginary cameras swooping in as you kiss my cheek, as I feel my face redden.
No rolling over in bed and locking eyes (despite the dark — I am less afraid of it with you around); no jet packs and small spoons.
They no longer make stories like this.
Of you holding my ice cream container because my hands get too cold; of reminding me to breath as I ride through a brain freeze.
While you cover my shaking body with a blanket, and wrap my figure around yours.
They no longer make stories like this.
Of perpetual finds 