I like you like a best friend giggle twizzle sticks, like sunshine like skipping like hopscotch. Like cuddly fuzzy buckets of bunnies and big wide teeth, no gaps—or maybe one gap just for character. I like you like a late afternoon round of paddleball bouncing off my thigh, off my ear, at bus stops where ghosts gather round and are handed their own from my rainbow-zippered backpack. Every one paddling now. I like you like ferry boat adventures in caterpillar costumes, like BFF and TTFN, like crayons and hand-stitched shoes made from old flaps of shower curtains and painted flags. I like you like I should like tickling, except I don’t because it feels like torture and even the seven-year-old cowgirl inside of me needs to be in control. But you—you are like whistling. Like practice and breathing. Constant like that. I like you like hot air balloons! And hot springs in the winter and giant silvercoin moons like beach balls in the sky. I like you, Dani. I like you a lot.