I like men in dark denim jeans, that hang low in a casual way around their hips.
I like the films that make tears spring to my eyes so that I only notice them when the salty taste of them reaches my lips.
I like scrubbing the dirt from under my fingernails when I get home.
I like when the hem of my dress caresses my legs, flirting with me.
I like the way my hands look when I talk excitedly about something.
I like my bottom lip, and how it collects the dewy left overs of a drink I just took.
I like walking through crowds of people on crowded New York Streets, alone not held down to someone ele’s pace.
I like the dip and float of my stomach if I take a hill too fast in my car.
I like the sound my fingers make when I rap them against the counter at work.
I like the soft light of my phone’s screen as I rapidly text my thoughts to a suitor.
I like the fresh burst of the cherry tomatoes that my mother grows, as I greedily pick and plop them into my mouth.
I like the wonder and ache in my heart when I hear a song that makes me listen harder.
I like the inspirations that seep into my brain, after exhaustion and sadness have haunted it.