MY HEART IS A COMPASS; IT POINTS TO YOU
Every night I come home from work, park either behind Donovan or in the street--depending on how early he must leave the next morning--and I march up to the door, sometimes carrying groceries, sometimes not. I unlock the door with my key, a tiny metal thing which means I'm invited, always, and most nights I am greeted by he rhythmical stomping of Donovan's feet, as he beats his heels along with the music he's listening to.
We have (he has) two little rooms, and a bathroom between them. One room is an entertainment room, with a nice TV and nice computer and my nice laptop and his new (but slightly less nice) laptop, and a lot of the time our clothes are scattered across the floor, his and mine mingling together now (something I take a secret pleasure in). From here on the couch I see three of my bras mixed in with his shorts and boxers and shirts; I like it.
The bathroom is in two parts, one, a tiny hall connecting the two larger rooms, this with a counter and a mirror and two sinks. One sink is "his" and one is "mine," now. Recently I brought home a pretty blue polka-dotted cigar box from work and inside of it I have placed my hair bands and jewelry; on top of it I have placed my hair products and all-natural witch hazel astringent pads. I like the way I've organized "my" side of the counter. The other part of the bathroom is separated from the hall-part by a door, and in it is the toilet and the shower. The shower contains bathing supplies, most of which we have purchased together.
On the other side of the bathroom is the bedroom. In it is a queen-sized bed and more clothes are on the floor, usually. There are two alarm clocks, one on each side of the bed, and sometimes he sets them both. We sleep comfortably in his wonderfully large bed. Most of the time we don't touch each other while we sleep, only in the morning in that fuzzy-happy waking state, which is when I theorize we love each other the most.
I treat these three rooms like it is our own little apartment (it almost is). Most nights I either pick up food for him or cook him something he already has here. A lot of the time after kissing him hello, I sit on the couch on my computer while he sits at his desk on his, and we don't talk much, because he's doing homework nearly all of the time. It's okay. Sometimes we sit on the couch together and hold each other while we watch a TV show. Rarely we play video games. More rarely we make love. During the days when he isn't home I pick up his dishes and carry them downstairs. I like it. I do our laundry. I like this, too.
I love coming home to him. I love going to bed and waking up with him. Things are mediocre now, I know--we seldom have time for the adventures we used to go on. Instead, though, now we go on vacations. We plan these trips together after months of earning our vacations the hard way. In a way this is much better than having many nightly hazardous adventures on zero hours of sleep. And I know our hard work now is going to lead to even better vacations, and a real house for us, and we're going to be happier than ever, with our dog and our cat or our smiles. He is my home, and it's okay.
We have (he has) two little rooms, and a bathroom between them. One room is an entertainment room, with a nice TV and nice computer and my nice laptop and his new (but slightly less nice) laptop, and a lot of the time our clothes are scattered across the floor, his and mine mingling together now (something I take a secret pleasure in). From here on the couch I see three of my bras mixed in with his shorts and boxers and shirts; I like it.
The bathroom is in two parts, one, a tiny hall connecting the two larger rooms, this with a counter and a mirror and two sinks. One sink is "his" and one is "mine," now. Recently I brought home a pretty blue polka-dotted cigar box from work and inside of it I have placed my hair bands and jewelry; on top of it I have placed my hair products and all-natural witch hazel astringent pads. I like the way I've organized "my" side of the counter. The other part of the bathroom is separated from the hall-part by a door, and in it is the toilet and the shower. The shower contains bathing supplies, most of which we have purchased together.
On the other side of the bathroom is the bedroom. In it is a queen-sized bed and more clothes are on the floor, usually. There are two alarm clocks, one on each side of the bed, and sometimes he sets them both. We sleep comfortably in his wonderfully large bed. Most of the time we don't touch each other while we sleep, only in the morning in that fuzzy-happy waking state, which is when I theorize we love each other the most.
I treat these three rooms like it is our own little apartment (it almost is). Most nights I either pick up food for him or cook him something he already has here. A lot of the time after kissing him hello, I sit on the couch on my computer while he sits at his desk on his, and we don't talk much, because he's doing homework nearly all of the time. It's okay. Sometimes we sit on the couch together and hold each other while we watch a TV show. Rarely we play video games. More rarely we make love. During the days when he isn't home I pick up his dishes and carry them downstairs. I like it. I do our laundry. I like this, too.
I love coming home to him. I love going to bed and waking up with him. Things are mediocre now, I know--we seldom have time for the adventures we used to go on. Instead, though, now we go on vacations. We plan these trips together after months of earning our vacations the hard way. In a way this is much better than having many nightly hazardous adventures on zero hours of sleep. And I know our hard work now is going to lead to even better vacations, and a real house for us, and we're going to be happier than ever, with our dog and our cat or our smiles. He is my home, and it's okay.