They get to the front door and she’s fine, and it’s only him who’s not fine, only him who’s jumbled up inside with all the things he could do. He could shake her hand. He could hug her. He could kiss her cheek. He could kiss her mouth. He could tell her that he can’t stop thinking about the way her eyes look like summer. He could tell her that he wants to bite the point of her chin and the arch of her throat. That he’s shaking and sick with wanting to touch her. Wanting to watch her gasp and laugh and smile. Wanting to reach that ever-unfolding bloom of her spirit and cradle it in his palms.
.
