If you come over we will sit on the floor. I will be a little shy until you tell me a story about kissing a girl a foot taller at summer camp and how your glasses fell off on Space Mountain in 8th grade and you spent the rest of the day wandering around the Magic Kingdom blind as a bat. Or something like that. You know how to make me laugh, real laughter. When the kettle whistles we settle on mint tea because half way into the process, after I've found two mugs clean & handles intact, you open the fridge and discover the milk that isn't there. So mint it is. And oatmeal cookies soft & with just enough chocolate chips. We will talk for hours, sitting on the floor, maybe stretching out to lay on our stomachs, maybe reading quietly to ourselves, looking up & over from time to time to smile shyly or share a sentence. For awhile Rachmaninoff will play in the background but when I switch over to Beirut's first album you will whisper how much you love accordion music & gypsies. You will understand when I'm able only to nod in agreement, so overcome by the music & by you; how lovely & surprising you are, the longing trumpets carry in their thin high notes.
If you come over we will sit on the floor.
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