There is a boy at my work.
I want to whisper songs into his ear, awful 80s hairmetal ballads, tropey, cheesy octave shattering sonnets.
I want to find out what his favorite cake is, and bake it, and watch him lick the frosting from the big wooden spoon as we wait for the cake to cool.
I want to lay somewhere sun dappled, my head on his chest, while clouds whip across the sky.
I want him to tell me something small, and magical, and simple.