Romance leaves you clinging to one, shimmering thread. Love holds you secure in its unvarnished cradle making decades of veggie stir-fry and Law & Order marathons into beautiful and happy reminders that that guy over your right shoulder teaching himself claw hammer banjo at a grating volume is the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen.
First sexual experiences can be rites of passage for many people and that’s OK, but couching that experience in language that somehow construes an individual as a lesser person is nonsense.
My fiancé heard me crying. He slid his fingers under the door and I laid my fingers on top of his. I cried, unmoored in an eddy of heft and woe, perfumed by a fragrant sorrow only some of us ever smell. Silly how a depression can make a person so needlessly poetic.