Dear Future Lover

Press your nose below my peach-fuzzed jaw, breathe in. 

To the veined crease of my wrist, breathe in. 

To the crown of my head, breathe in. 

Someone told me once about how personal scent is strongest on the top of the head, that's why people dig their snouts into the little whisps of newborns' hair when holding them. The good stuff. You know, baby smell. 

Enjoy mine. Fight the content smile at the familiarity, let the tip of your nose crunch against my bedhead.

Let me catch you doing it, let my chest swoop in surprise.

Let me grin, face smooshed against the pilled cotton pillowcase. What was the thread count again? Enough to drool on?

Baby me. Keep my soft spots guarded, the parts of my head that aren't fused right yet. 

I won't be used to loving you. You'll have to baby-proof the whole relationship. You'll have to buy outlet covers, and put pieces of fitted foam on the corners of tables, keep me from swallowing button batteries. Watch out for when I'm quiet, because I've gotten into something dangerous, even if that thing is just my own head.

Cup my head, shhh me into sleep. My shiny, fat lips smacking softly together with fatigue. There's drool. Unconscious grunting, too. 

So, breathe in as hard as you can. Love me, as hard as you can. 

Even when I throw my food on the floor.