Your bright eyes dance as you talk to me, and your little smirk is so endearing. I love the way that you get so excited about what you have to say, when you tease you look so mischievous. You remind me of a silly little boy, with your love of life and your grin that says just how much you love to tease. I love that when you’re trying to make me think that you’re hurt, you can manage to frown with your mouth, but never your eyes.
I love how you move with such intensity, such drive, as if everything you do or say or are included in is so incredibly exciting you can’t stand to just sit back. You throw yourself into everything whole heartedly.
I even love that you can be incredibly hot-headed sometimes. I try not to smile as you get more and more frustrated with people that don’t react the same way you do, and how you will take on anyone—anything—that threatens to harm anyone you love. You are determined—committed—to protection. To helping people.
Sometimes you are harmful with your words. Sometimes you let yourself get out of hand. But that’s just the way you are, and I understand. Everyone does that. That doesn’t mean I like you any less. I don’t think I can.
Everything about you is so alive, and fresh, and new. It’s just you.
You’re so alive to me.
So how is it that you’re not real at all?