by Lynn Kim Do

His precious beautiful babe.

He touched my fingertips, stroking my fingernails delicately like he was stroking petals on a rose. Like if he touched it too hard, it would fall off. With no hopes of ever puttng it back. Nor had he any intentions to.

I'm his delicate flower. His precious beautiful babe. Who talks in her sleep. Who lives in a constant state of hangry. Who is more often annoying than funny. Or sexy. Or cute.

- his