(no subject)
The first two sentences are kim's. Therefore, all of this is really kim's, because without the beginning there would be no middle or end. Thanks, gorgeous. I'll always walk on the beach with you and hold your hand.
We were hunting seashells with sandy toes, sunglasses, and salty hair. We were holding hands and I said, "this is happiness" and you said, "this is air." We were swallowing our past, and with our free hands we were crossing our fingers. That doesn’t matter, though, because our clasped hands were shouting out that familiar pattern so much like a heartbeat. This is happiness, this is air, this is the sand beneath our feet and this is why we’re going home. And the heart will beat and beat. What we breathe shows us who we are, and I can divine your identity by what you squeeze between the molecules in your lungs.
The unalienable truths of life: this is happiness, this is air, and now we have to turn around and head back. Take some comfort in the fact that your feet always leave impressions in the sand and your words nestle down into the hollows of my mind, and that the heart will beat and beat. Turn around and look back; everyone else has filled in where we were, like the water rushing into the hole we clawed out with our hands. Don’t say it’s almost as though we were never there at all. I know we were, because I can trace the timeline of your feet next to mine. Ahead of us? We’ll step carefully, and they’ll part and let us through. They always do. Sometimes you will take that forward half a step to clear the way, and next it will be my turn. This is happiness, this is air, and this is me stepping on sharp rocks because sometimes, sometimes you can’t avoid it. The sun is bright, you know. As if sunglasses could shield what people say with their eyes. As if I need to look at your eyes to know you’ll be there. I take my comforts, and I look anyway. This is happiness, this is air, and this is how I always know what you’re saying.
Why?
Because the heart will beat and beat. The walk there, the ride home, and the seconds in between that sometimes stretch and sometimes fall into your hand, the ones that we love. We were never surprised when the rain started to fall. Fresh strawberries and the heat of the day blend together and throw another stone in the pile, because here we are again. This is happiness and this is air and the heart will beat and beat because this hand knows yours and no one can fight it when we’ve got that truth on our side.
This is happiness.
This is air.
And this, oh this is why we write.
We were hunting seashells with sandy toes, sunglasses, and salty hair. We were holding hands and I said, "this is happiness" and you said, "this is air." We were swallowing our past, and with our free hands we were crossing our fingers. That doesn’t matter, though, because our clasped hands were shouting out that familiar pattern so much like a heartbeat. This is happiness, this is air, this is the sand beneath our feet and this is why we’re going home. And the heart will beat and beat. What we breathe shows us who we are, and I can divine your identity by what you squeeze between the molecules in your lungs.
The unalienable truths of life: this is happiness, this is air, and now we have to turn around and head back. Take some comfort in the fact that your feet always leave impressions in the sand and your words nestle down into the hollows of my mind, and that the heart will beat and beat. Turn around and look back; everyone else has filled in where we were, like the water rushing into the hole we clawed out with our hands. Don’t say it’s almost as though we were never there at all. I know we were, because I can trace the timeline of your feet next to mine. Ahead of us? We’ll step carefully, and they’ll part and let us through. They always do. Sometimes you will take that forward half a step to clear the way, and next it will be my turn. This is happiness, this is air, and this is me stepping on sharp rocks because sometimes, sometimes you can’t avoid it. The sun is bright, you know. As if sunglasses could shield what people say with their eyes. As if I need to look at your eyes to know you’ll be there. I take my comforts, and I look anyway. This is happiness, this is air, and this is how I always know what you’re saying.
Why?
Because the heart will beat and beat. The walk there, the ride home, and the seconds in between that sometimes stretch and sometimes fall into your hand, the ones that we love. We were never surprised when the rain started to fall. Fresh strawberries and the heat of the day blend together and throw another stone in the pile, because here we are again. This is happiness and this is air and the heart will beat and beat because this hand knows yours and no one can fight it when we’ve got that truth on our side.
This is happiness.
This is air.
And this, oh this is why we write.