Tongue tied 1/2

Beauty is pain, beauty is subjective. Beauty is such a thing which plagues my mind on a level so much larger than myself. Aren't I so shallow? A pretty face, soft hair makes me squirm. Scratching an itch which I did not know needed to be itched, the butterflies do not manifest into words nor actions; I sit and gawk like an idiot because the warmth in my body is so overpowering, observing the swivel of hips, flicking of hair - rosy lips, warm, soft tummy and back, a perfect torso tapering into a small, tidy waist ... aren't you so vulnerable? Your beauty etched with vulnerability to the finest details, and all I want is to hold you - small, pristine and precious, each edge smoothed to perfection, little creases that I year to trace so meticulously yet gently; resilient you are, I'm aware. But god forbid I want to hold you, shelter you; preserve that version of you that I hold so dear in my mind's eye, that which reaches, that which smiles and blushes so, that which is so small and light as a feather in my arms. I feel light when I'm with you.