Young Writers Society

The first time we met, you were so cute, and so fascinatingly feathery I felt like I could lose myself in them. I have always loved chicken: I would eat chicken fingers on Thanksgiving if it were socially acceptable. I never used to believe in love at first sight. But my heart raced and felt like it would burst out of my chest at your initial reaction to me, which was more like a frightened doe caught in the blinding headlights of an approaching Lincolin than a flightless bird. Or, more accurately, like the fattest deer in the flock singled out by a cunning greyhound. Ere long you began to run about so absurdly as to make it impossible to catch you easily, like a true Gallus Gallus Domesticus. The emotion I felt was like the home run feeling, that jump over the fence feeling. I was in love.

Now, five years have passed, and our love has only grown, into something rare and beautiful. Much like the young woman I have seen blossom before my eyes a wanderess, a wildflower, concealed memories in the valley of your breasts, and folded secrets between your highs like napkins:

In my mind, you are naked in my armchair before me as I run my fingers just down the long place where the insides of your thighs touch. All the way to your knees I go, and then I let go of your legs, and they fall slightly apart, and as my hands start to move up inside them, with my fingers splayed wide, they move farther and farther apart. Then I lift your knees and hook them over the arms of the armchair, so that you're wide open for me, and in the darkness your bush is still indistinct. I look up at you, and I touch your shoulders with my hands, and pass my fingertips all the way down over your breasts and over your stomach and just lightly over your bush, just to feel the hair. Then, I lick both your nipples once very briefly good-bye, and I breathe my way down, and I pass over your bush this time with my mouth, and I see where the skin stops, and where the hair begins. And I keep going, and your legs are spread wide, and so I kiss inside one knee, and then across to the other, and up, back and forth,. And at the end of each kiss I give a little upward lick with my tongue, up lick, lick, lick, back and forth, moving closer and closer to where your thighs meet...

When I touch your body like that, my heart seems to explode, and when I kiss you my knees grow weak. But though I could kiss you a thousand times and still not be satisfied, my love for you is endless, so tender, so hot and complete. an example not of lust, but pure love that is more than love.

My love for you is a friendship that has caught fire, it is quiet understanding, confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses. My love is content with the present, it hopes for the future, and it doesn't brood over the past. It's the day in and day out chronicle of irritations, problems, compromises, small disappointments, big victories, and working toward common goals.

In the moment we met all those years ago, out of all the people in the world, you became The One. Replace chicken feathers for an accent that persists in my heart as much as in your speech, reaching me across telephone lines from a strange, strange place where you could wear flip-flops and snow boots both in one week. I think your name has been inscribed in my heart before I knew your name. I whisper your name each morning and each night to the stars, just to taste the sound of you on my lips. I will love you for the rest of my life, no matter what.