Or, if you want to get really picky, it's probably more along the lines of simile-ly speaking. But that just doesn't sound as cool.
I've been reading a lot of books lately with really rich, layered language and descriptions, that make full use of descriptive metaphor and simile and really startling imagery. Inspired, I've decided to try my hand at a few. Let me know what you think.
The air between us was charged, alive, like those silver balls you find at children's science museums that you trace your fingers along and the lines of tiny lightning follow, and all of your hair stands on edge from the current. Except my hair was still as smooth and gently curled as a pure-bred Afghan hound, being trotted out for inspection at Westminster, and his hair was still as dark and unruly as the Black Forest, hair my fingers wanted to wrap around and get lost in, like a hedge maze but with better grooming and no spider-webs. As he drew closer to me, achingly close, my heart raced like a frightened rabbit in my chest. But not one of those dopey, flop-eared, domestic rabbits that drinks water out of a bottle wired to the side of the cage and sits around in its own feces because no one wants to clean out the cage. One of those stringy, half-starved, always on alert rabbits who has known nothing but fear and hiding, who darts out of the night right in front of your car and you brace yourself, waiting to see if the pert-eared creature made it or if there will be a stomach-sickening pop as you accidentally and tragically end a short, brutal life. I wasn't sure which fate my heart was about to meet, but looking at his lips, full and soft like a rose, and not a dingy, sad rose from the grocery store bouquets that feel of velvety desperation and reek of last-minute-thoughtfulness, but a full, wild rose growing on a hillside that hasn't known human hands in centuries, wild and free and full of thorns but all the sweeter for those thorns, I knew I didn't care if my rabbit heart was about to be smashed into oblivion like the particles of a tiny meteor coming into contact with an atmosphere too brilliant and infinitely hot for it to ever survive, because like that tiny meteor I knew I might be snuffed out of existence, but I would dazzle and flame out in glorious sparks, a shooting star death of my rabbit heart against his wild, thorny rose lips.
I don't know, guys. I think I'm on to something. Clearly my similes are simiMORES, not simiLESSES. Time to go edit everything I've ever written, because my style is about to get a serious upgrade. And not one of those upgrades where you have to restart your computer and wait around while it installs and inevitably leaves your clock all wonky, but one of those upgrades where you chuck your whole computer out the window and buy a new one, but not just any new one, that new Mac that you really don't need and will never use three-fourths of the features on but dangitall if it isn't just plain cooler and will instantly increase your super hip status when you take it and write in coffee shops, even if you aren't actually writing, you're just surfing the web and reading gossip columns and hating yourself for it. THAT kind of upgrade.