You're always around, and have been for some time now.  You have spent days at a stretch with us, lounged around, dropped by, slept over, house-sat. 

You are shy, sly, hilarious - I love the look you give me when you say something that hits my funnybone just right and I let out a shout of surprised laughter.  The look that says yes, I'm good and possibly I love to make you laugh.

Talking about music, your eyes light up as you tell me what I must hear, and then play it for me.  Some of it seems to send a message, one that could be plucked out of the air (or brushed off) like spiderwebs - that ambiguous, that ephemeral.

When you take a bite of something I've cooked, your moans of pleasure make my mouth water.

You touch me so rarely that when you do, my nervous system sends showers of sparks down my spine and I try not to shudder noticeably.

I want to trace your cheekbones and eyebrows, run my fingers through your pretty curls, tongue your earlobe.  I want to touch the vast expanses of your skin that I've never seen, raking with my fingernails but gently, gently.  I want to turn your face to mine, I want my mouth on yours and eyes closed, only coming up for air after we've completely lost track of time, I want you above me, inside me, below me, and most of all I want to take it slowly, so slowly, then not, until we're both crying out, unable to help ourselves...

...but I can't.