Elaboration.

I want to see you intoxicated. I hope you'll get that pretty pink flush right across your cheekbones. That your eyes will get glossy and bright, shine with a sort of hero worship that never gets old. Not even for me.

I imagine that you would taste sweet. Sweet in a way that only a boy like you could taste. Experienced, confident. (But you've never done anything like this, have you?) You're still so untouched.

I imagine that you would close your eyes, lashes fluttering shut to cast paper-cutout shadows on your cheeks. Maybe you'll tilt your head back and I'll be able to feel the nervous flutter of your pulse. The stumble of your heartbeat and the catches in your breathing. I'd like to hold your hands in mine, the bones in your wrist standing out against the spiderweb criss-cross of veins silhouetted in your skin. I'd run my fingers along the sloping angles of your face, the smooth expanses of your neck.

"You're so lovely," I'd say to you.

"No I'm not," you'd say right back.