Intimacy of crying in front of you.
Intimacy of singing (badly) at the top of my lungs while road tripping.
Intimacy of driving with you in the car, exposing my subjectively bad driving skills.
Intimacy of sharing meals and letting you see me eat freely, no pretense.
Intimacy of letting you know the foods I do not eat.
Intimacy of discussing a book together.
Intimacy of letting you know what my favorite movies are, no matter how childish.
Intimacy of letting you see my camera roll.
Intimacy of letting you hear the most-played songs on my Spotify account.
Intimacy of letting you see me sleep.
Intimacy of having you over in my house, of seeing the inside of my bathroom, of seeing my messy kitchen.
Intimacy of the unladylike laughs that resemble snoring more than anything else.
Intimacy of talking about our views of money.
Intimacy of cooking for you.
Intimacy of talking about our childhoods.
Intimacy of doing grocery shopping together.
…funny how intimacy has been reduced to sex, when clearly there’s so much more that makes us tingle, that sends shivers through our spine, that weakens our legs.