Rest your hand on my side, pressing fingers between rib ridges, and feel the cacophonous rhythm within me. This quickening, thundering beat accelerates as the stories continue — stories of your progress and triumph, stories of momentary setbacks, stories of your past. The apprehension of newness gives way to a nervousness of wanting more — wanting to hear more stories, wanting more contact, wanting more of this thing with us. I want more of this, the fresh and exciting experiences, the endless kissing in public places, and revealing of secrets despite the frightening uncertainty of being interested in someone I don’t know well.
But I want it all the same. Whatever it ends up being.