my boi

I think of him singing loudly in his truck, windows down, country songs that I have started, shockingly, to enjoy, because they make me think of his wide smile as he sings them to me. I think of smooth brown shoulders, leaning inwards, protective and possessive. A boi in black leather and a white t-shirt, sprawled lazy on his motorbike, bad-boy face with vivid eyes: "Hey little girl, want some candy?"

I think of the way he throws an arm around my shoulders, leads me forward, smiling cocky-smug at everyone we pass (as proud of me as I am of him). Teaches me the secrets of giving gifts to bois, and how to steal kisses. Talks without apparent fear of adventures we could go on, adventures we will (surely) go on. Whose absolute delight in toys (toys that spin and fly, and toys that go really really fast down highways) would make even the crankiest girl crack a smile.