I miss being in a relationship. More specifically, I miss being in a new relationship. I miss the butterfly-inducing text messages and phone calls, the dinners and the movies, the groping in the theater and the mad dash home to rip off each other's clothes and consume one another, emphatically. I miss late-night conversations about minutiae, stories I haven't heard yet, and stolen kisses on street corners. I miss tingly touches and tenuous intimacy masked in mystery. I miss being asked if I'm seeing someone and blushing in response, thinking of just how much I saw of him the night before. I miss how invincible it makes me feel to be the object of someone's affection, how pleasing the view can be through someone else's eyes.
I don't have feelings for anyone at the moment, no promising prospects even, and in that absence I think I've fallen in love with the idea of being in love. Or rather that place right before you're in love, when you know you're going to be, but you haven't quite surrendered yet. I'm infatuated with that week before you say, "I love you," when it's all you can think of in their presence, but the words can't make their way out of your mouth. When you secretly hope and more secretly fear that they're thinking the same thing about you.