You are pretty, like the toys, treasures in my chest. You are blood red, filling my heart, beating like the steady bass of a dance track. You are the beautiful wind-up doll, the key to my soul.

You are mine, and I still need some time to get used to that.

I don't know when the tears will stop collecting at my eyelids when you kiss me slowly, gently, ghosting pressure across my lower lip. I don't know when my heart will stop feeling like it is going to burst out of my chest when you gently run your fingers up my arm and snuggle into my embrace.

I don't know when all this will register in this silly brain of mine.

This morning is rainy, chilly. Our feet are cold, legs entangled under the white comforter, and I watch you silently as the water droplets continue with their rhythmic pitter patter against the glass window. You shift a little, burrowing into me, and my arm falls across your shoulder in a pattern we've fallen into, naturally. I smile as your eyelids flutter open, allowing myself to draw a tiny line down your nosebridge. You are sleepy, still bleary, and you shut your eyes lazily again, the faintest trace of a grin gracing your childlike features. A yawn fights its way out of your small mouth, but you stretch, slightly, and return the gesture, throwing your arm across my waist. Your breathing is even, and I press a gentle kiss to your forehead. You squirm, cutely, pouting. 

I laugh, deep and throaty. 

You push me back against the pillows, kissing me gently at the side of my mouth, and my brain short-circuits. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on the sensations roiling over my body; I feel as if I am floating on a cloud, weightless and effortlessly happy. How long have I been chasing this pair of lips? Small and soft, the delicate run of tongue across the roof of my mouth as you claim my lips with a slowness that contradicts the hurried sound of rain hitting multiple surfaces outside. You whimper, and I grin to myself. I want to look at you, but at the same time, I'm afraid of opening my eyes; afraid that all this would explode like an episode of a spring dream. We pause to breathe, and I want to say something, anything, but your fingers are twisting in the fabric of my muscle tank, and you are kissing me all over again. You do this with no urgency, lazy, fitting the mood of this slow, sticky morning, almost as if we were drowning in layers of honey. Sweet.

Tasting, sliding, as you deepen the kiss. A kiss that is a promise; a promise of us. When you pull back and retreat to your position in my embrace, we are both breathless and smiling widely, like little children. "Morning, Seobie," I whisper, and you purr in contentment. The rain outside continues.

You were always pretty
Will you just remain the way you are
The toys in my chest, like a treasure
In my tin case
You always smile at me like that