A question under the stars
I know how I'll know if he's the one. If we're lying in the each other's arms, staring up at the stars -- and we're doing it anyway, even if it's a cliche, because the sight is too beautiful to overwhelmed by cliche -- and he asks me what I want to do when I grow up. Well, we're sort of grown up already, but not really. Anyway, he asks me what I see myself doing years and years from now. Because he cares. Because he's fascinated. Because he wants to figure out if he can fit in my maelstrom of a life -- and if he can, how well. And months later he'll ask the same thing, because he realizes that plans can change. He realizes that the contents of my heart shift on our way from here to there. Those shifts matter to him. Those shifts are part of me, and every part of me matters to him.
The guy who cares about shifting carry-ons and turbulence and delays and detours, who offers me an air sickness bag when I feel queasy, who tells me how much longer we have left when I ask, "Are we there yet?"
He'll be the one.
The guy who cares about shifting carry-ons and turbulence and delays and detours, who offers me an air sickness bag when I feel queasy, who tells me how much longer we have left when I ask, "Are we there yet?"
He'll be the one.