She's not traditionally affectionate.
We don't hold hands, we don't cuddle in public, not really. I touch her, here and there, because it's impossible for me not to. I squeeze her knee, brush her thigh, gently grasp for her little fingers as we walk side by side...Occasionally I allow myself the privilege of grasping little bits of her blond hair, lifting them lazily, and watching them cascade down again, onto her small, round shoulders.
Her yellow aura wafting over me like perfume and sending me into fits of awkward giggles. I love her. Being near her makes me silly and speechless. Fumbling for words like an ignorant, grinning fool. And I love her.
Kissing her is a rare privilege. Her soft little mouth against mine, and I am suddenly overcome with gluttony, wanting to breathe her completely into me, and hide her there forever. Those delicate, rosy cheeks...
Saying goodbye in front of my house, I can never treat her with the affection I'm always tempted to display. To scoop her up. To savor her kisses. To squeeze her in my arms in an attempt to meld her to me forever...and I can't. Neighbors. Children. Passers by.
And so, I settle instead, for that blissful moment, when we embrace, and she gathers my face and hair in her hands, to plant a long, sweet kiss against my cheek. I drink in the moment like sweet wine, savoring every second, every scent of her hair, the softness of her face against my desperate flesh. I want to sink against her, and submit to every heaving desire...
And I can't. I don't. I settle, instead, for her lingering kiss against my cheek, and the scent of her, clung to my clothes.