Zoey Gallagher

I like dancing around that silly little word as if it doesn’t write symphonies in our subtext. I like knowing it’s there. I can feel it- when our eyes lock, when we wrap our arms, legs, torsos, and toes tightly around each other and it still doesn’t feel nearly close enough. There are so many things I’ll tell you I love. Like your shoes, and your hair, and the way you talk about your dogs, the zoo, or a new favorite song. Your eyes and the birthmark at the top of your right thigh. Your thoughts and your pinky finger and the earmuffs you wear when it’s cold out. That you give names to animals and sing songs in the shower and enjoy long lake walks even when it’s below freezing outside (and have I mentioned that you’re wild for it?). Your handwriting and your room and all its trinkets. And when you tell me about your job or your day and any medium, large, small, or minuscule thing that happened in it.

I really like the color green, and the number 4 written precisely as shown, eating popcorn with MnMs at the movies, sweatshirts with hoods, dimly lit bars, fuzzy socks, frozen fruit, and you. And for now, I like our waltz and the way that silly little word lives within everything else I say to you.