I think “dildo” is a perfectly acceptable insult. Like, I’d call you a dick but you’re not real enough.
I wonder how biology can explain the physical pain you feel in your chest when all you want to do is be with someone.
If only my mouth could say the things my hands do. Instead, I tell paper about how your skin looks the way a sunset should feel and that I once spent an afternoon thinking only of the freckles on your nose. You’ll never know it, but my favorite pastime is tracing the valley of your lips with my eyes and silently coming up with words worthy of your laughter, because I think your smile makes flowers grow.