Let’s hold hands. You can rub the back of my thumb with yours and I can feel all the lines of your palm press gently into mine and I can find all the amazing shapes our hands make, even when they are so very close together. Let’s hold hands and talk about my habits and what songs we like to do at karaoke and how there are specific fictional robots that are way better than others.

Let’s hold hands and not let go until you decide to kiss me, until I decide to let you try.

Let’s kiss. You can pull my mouth to yours, press your body against mine, push your hand up into my hair. You can trace the edge of my teeth with your tongue, learn the shape of my lips by the way they move against yours, hold me by the nape of the neck with one hand, just tight enough to keep me from pulling away, but just loose enough to let me know that I can, if I wan’t.

Life is too short to spend it wondering if your life will explode into a million pieces if they ever touch you.

I’d rather be broken apart by the truth than spend my life always wondering—always wondering what it felt like to be touched by someone who meant it, by someone who wanted it just as bad as I did, by someone who didn’t want to spend their life wondering either.