It’s peculiar,
this feeling you give me.
I always assumed that love was this grandiose
fancy dinners,
vests and dresses,
diamonds and pearls.
Maybe love is still about those things,
but then I met you,
and suddenly all of that changed.
For the first time, I wanted nothing more than to simply
with you.
I craved you, in the simplest and most innocent of ways.
To come over and have you in nothing but an old t-shirt,
worn out sweat pants,
and mismatched socks.
Your hair, a fantastical mess of chocolate
swirled about your lovely cheekbones,
connecting the dots of your sweet freckles,
as we watched or read whatever spoke to your soul,
and I would twirl your hair in my hands
as you fell in and out of sleep against my chest.
I wanted to make late night tampon runs,
in the chill of night,
and as we drove over to the store,
you would clutch my arm in the frigid thralls of your car.
I wanted to see you bare,
to turn the worn pages of your soul,
to read the you that you are when you are alone,
the no make-up, no effort version of you
because that is the only form that speaks the truth.
Now, I know that you aren’t supposed to look
for other people to save you,
but when I am around you,
the world becomes, like crystal,
My spirits rise, and the skies,
thick with smoke and haze,
shift to the calmest and kindest blue.
I know I’m meant to save myself,
but the honest truth,
is that with you,
I don’t have to.
So, come, my darling,
it is never too late
to begin our story,
our love,
over again.


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