, and I sit down and read it and I want to cry, because I am just so glad that he is there, and I can talk to him, and we have a story that I think is beautiful, and I say it a lot, but we met in a grade eleven English class while reading to kill a mockingbird, I turned to him and said, “I ripped my sock.” &this is how it all began. And, a beautiful girl once said I write about everything like it is a fucking fairytale, and maybe I do, and I can accept it, because this is how I feel. And it scares me. But, it’s in the crevices of his hands and how those same hands look dancing over guitar strings, and as I tuck myself into a sleeping bag leaning back in the passenger seat of a car surrounded by broken glass and smoke is dancing up to the roof after a much awaited return I realize this is it, and after waiting even longer for some alone time, we spend the whole night wide awake, drinking whiskey and smoking too many cigarettes and TALKING about EVERYTHING, and for the first time in a long time, I feel that everything is okay, and I want him to know how good I feel but I don’t want to be overwhelming or scare him away. And it is all rather frustrating, because I want to give him his personal freedom.
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