A Description Of Sunshine

'There are boxes of clementines in the kitchen and the thing is that I love you again.'-Alessia Di Cesare, The Side Effects of Eating Too Many Clementines

I’m talking about what doesn’t matter. I’m talking about the look in your eye when you make a joke that you know will make me laugh. I’m talking about the roughness of your palm when I’m holding your hand, the spaces between your fingers for mine to fit into, and the creases of your palm pressed against mine. I’m talking about how good it feels when you run your hands through my hair, how I don’t move for as long as you do it because I worry that you’ll stop.

I’m talking about the warmth of your arms when we’re hugging each other, the rough wool of your sweater, the soft cotton of your summer tee and the embroidery of your kurta, all I’ve felt against my cheek, a hug in every season. I’m talking about how it’s mostly for my benefit, but we pretend it’s not because you’re kind and I love you more, but it’s okay because your love is worth more anyway. I’m talking about how safe I feel my arms around your torso, yours around my shoulders, your chin on the top of my head, you’re so warm and I never want to be cold again.

I’m talking about your hair when it’s wet from the rain or a shower, so human, so perfect, so alive, as alive as the trees and the wind and the ocean and a storm and my heart that’s beating, beating, beating, quick like a rabbit because I love you and I cannot stop thinking about it: your hair, wet from the rain or a shower. I’m talking about the warmth of your skin when you wake up in the morning, kissing my forehead, the spot where you kissed it left a bit damp, and I’m thankful for the proof that I exist and you look at me and I smile like I have a point to prove, and I do, I do, I want you to know how happy you make me, want you to know it always.

I’m talking about the kiss you drop on the top of my head when coming back or going away, the warmth of your mouth felt over my hair, purposeful in how nonchalant it is, and all I can think about is the horror of if I’d not had this life, fear of the ignorance of what I wouldn’t have had. I’m talking about your eyes, looking at them so close, so beautiful I want to trap the beauty in a poem, I’m talking about joining a writing class, and you’re laughing and humouring me, telling me I’d be good at it. I’m talking about how you believe in me like no one’s ever believed in me before.

I’m talking about the dimple you get on the side of your mouth, the creases on the sides of your eyes, shining, your teeth all on display, smiling like a child, as if you’ve never been sad before, your cheeks pulled up and rosy, and it feels like fireworks in my chest where my lungs are supposed to be and I cannot breathe or blink, I’m so taken with it, and it feels like every greatest honour that matters being received by every great person that will ever be remembered. I’m talking about your voice, talking and laughing, the valleys and dips and crests in it, I am entranced, and can barely think, you are slightly leaning into my side and I feel the warmth of your arm seeping into mine, I’m warm from head to toe and trying to remember what the conversation is about, trying to keep from turning you around and hugging you tight, I feel like I might burst with this sudden influx of affection unless you physically hold me together.

I’m talking about our legs up against the wall, lying next to each other on the mattress and our backs will hurt, probably, and we will talk about how we knew this would make our backs hurt. I’m talking about holding your hand and getting to hold your hand and talking to you about nothing and everything, things we got hurt from, things we fell in love with, things that made us laugh, people lovely and stupid, and I’m trying not to talk about how I love you so much I might drown in it, can’t breathe around it but it’s the best, anyway, because it’s you and I’m dramatic and a child and never took that writing class and cannot imagine anything coming more naturally to me than loving you.

I’m talking about you saying my name and I want to die just thinking of it because I never feel more real, touchable, concrete than when you are saying my name and my stomach swoops and my knees are weak and my hands shake because I exist in a mind like yours, a mind whose every thought is beautiful to me, I’m overwhelmed and you just said my name so I say ‘yes?’ but it sounds more reverent than I intended for it to, but everything I say to you ends up sounding that way, because I have lived for you before and might die for you if necessary, religiosity is a uniquely human trait.

I’m talking about talking about our futures with you, our fears, hopes, dreams, a life together and I cannot wait, cannot wait for things to go right and for us to be happy and at a party with everyone we love and you will lean the side of your head against mine and it’ll my greatest victory, and for things to go wrong, and you will hug me as I cry and your shirt will be wet with my tears and my nose will be so red it’ll be funny and you will let me wipe my tears with your sleeve even though it’s disgusting but you won’t care because it’s me and I’ll be leaning my head against your shoulder while you make us dinner and I’ll say ‘I’m not hungry’ and you’ll frown but then again, maybe I will be, not hungry for food, but for a dinner with you, I’ll have been starving since sixteen.

I’m talking about you and me in a crowded room, how I follow you around like a puppy, like the ocean follows a wave, because you’re my favourite person, in every room you’ve ever been in you’ve been my favourite person, and even when you aren’t talking to me I want to listen to you because I love your mind, I would listen to you talk about anything because I love your thoughts, to me, tragedies are survivable as long as I get to hear your thoughts on them. I’m talking about your sense of humour, how endlessly hilarious you find silly science memes and calculus jokes and I love them too, but even if I didn’t my Pinterest board and my Instagram suggestions and my phone gallery would still be the same because I would do anything to make you smile but I do love them and you love them too and I think you’re my perfect person because just like me, you love stars but are terrified of space and I love you but sometimes I’m scared of you finding out how much.

I’m talking about a sunrise we stayed up all night to watch, one I don’t remember because we were tired and laughing and happy though life was sad and you pulled at the edge of my shirt when you told me it was dawn and that we should go to bed, maybe, and we woke up at midday that day and got sick and your skin, warm again, with fever, now, and the pain in the back of my throat and how horrible it felt but when we talked about it last week, you told me you’d do it again. I’m talking about the look in your eyes and the cold winter breeze, freezing in our lungs, you looking at me like I could make every kind of mistake known to mankind and none of it would take away from the iridescence of the shade of blue we were looking at at that moment.

I’m talking about things like the line of your nose and the way it crinkles when you laugh and the inflection in your voice when you’re making fun of me and your foot, tapping the sole of my shoe under the table when I realised you were my best friend and the tilt of your head looking at the painting at the art gallery we visited together but I can’t recall a single painting or the name of the artists because I wanted to lock the weight of your arm around my shoulder into a work of art, my fingers interlaced in yours, your nails smooth, our legs brushing together and you.