Writing--rather, journalling--is how I hold the piece of dark chocolate on my tongue, close my eyes and enjoy the bittersweet. It's running my hands along a luxurious silk, sliding my fingers back and forth. Remembering the senses, the sensual, the warmth and comfort.

I've pressed the petals between the pages of the journal we're keeping. I've hung the flowers upside down in his grandma's garage. I've tried to commit every moment to memory, to write as many details as I can.

Like the detail of Sunday night. After I told him the idea of him, of all he is and all he could be, was too much to fit inside my head, that it overwhelmed me so much that I cried, he spoke.

"There's something I've wanted to say for a long time," he started. "And I know that relationship involves risks. I want to take the risk. I've heard it said that you shouldn't say this unless the next words out your mouth are 'will you marry me'."

He paused.

"But I think that's one of the dumbest things I've ever heard," he grinned. "We've talked around it long enough."

I smiled, knowing what was coming but still not sure what to think: "how would it feel, what should I say, his eyes are gorgeous, I've wanted to say the same thing...." Thoughts bombard me when they should just shhhh and enjoy the moment and listen to what the poor guy's trying to say and...

"I love you," he said. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I said. Words rarely spoken out loud. They felt strange.

The next day I was nearly giddy. Smiles. Skipping. That silly scene of twitterpated springtime Bambie fauna.

And still, each time I hear him say it I can't stop the smile from spreading across my face.

I'm testing the words, still. Trying them on for size. Discovering inflection, volume, eye contact.