You can totalllllly do everything on your own. Except kill spiders, change tires, and reach the spices on the tippy-top pantry shelf.
For the hours that we drive, we are caught in a protected net of time—no decisions need to be made just yet, no choices are sneaking up on us. There’s nothing we need to do or be other than here, now, and looking ahead.
You apologize. The real kind of apology. The one that goes to the core of you, that brings forth tears.
That acknowledges your imperfections, even the ones you try to hide.
Because loving them brings humor and grace into your life.
You apologize. Fully, in the way that really digs deep. You apologize for the little things, the big things, and the everythings in-between. You reach into the most guarded part of your heart and let those walls down.
You are broken, and it’s okay to be broken right now. You can’t rush your healing, and that’s fine. But you need to know that this feeling won’t last. You need to know that just because you’re hurting doesn’t mean you can’t get back up again, doesn’t mean you’re weak.
I’d have to decipher you like a poem, breathing in every confusing line, every stanza, every extended metaphor hidden in your eyes or the arch of your spine.
Promise me that we’ll never be too old for cones from the ice cream truck, for lying in the grass and making animals out of clouds, for squirt gun fights and pillow forts and talking in strange accents. Promise that you’ll grow old with me, but never grow up.
I will not color in the lines of love. Instead I will draw my own picture, make designs and shapes outside the boundaries.
I want you when it rains because I like the way the water feels on my bare skin. Because the water makes me feel natural, real, alive. Because I can see us intertwined on the couch, talking to the rhythm of the water, no destination or place to be besides in one another’s arms.