about a boy
It begins with a suppressed giggle, but you have a most uncanny ability to make it snowball, and it frustrates me on an epic scale when I’m helplessly and unglamorously cackling away to our private jokes. They never fail to bring forth an irrepressible urge to stab myself with the sharpest object within my arm’s reach that I could ram myself with, just to put a halt to my otherwise perpetual spasm of laughter. I get so physically spent because I always end up chasing after my breath, and it’s getting detrimentally ridiculous because we joke excessively within a sixty-minute time span.
Knowing that my diaphragm’s days are numbered, I often find myself wondering when it will finally explode and what it would sound like, which, I have to admit, never strikes me as a particularly pleasing thought.
I suppose no one word can accurately describe how much I adore spending time with you.
