(no subject)
I used to think that love was a pretty cut-and-dried thing. You find the person you're meant to be with and tag home base. "Soulmate - check. Next!"
I was little at the time, which is how I excuse the complete stupidity of that statement.
Love fucks you up. It's supposed to. When you peel down all your shells and layers and leave yourself exposed, naked, raw, vulnerable - all your messed up squidgy bits pressed into someone else's - it's only a matter of time before one of you breathes wrong and scrapes the other right where they don't have any defenses.
It's a terrifying thing. There's no tightrope or anything. You just have to lay it out there and trust.
And then there are the times when you manage to have knock-down, drag-out, screaming matches with the one person you'd die for. Eight years, and somehow we still manage to have those like clockwork whenever we're supposed to be doing something special. Anniversaries, birthdays, you name it, we've mucked it up.
The flipside of it: eight years, and I still swoon a bit when I smell your neck. Eight years, and I still don't understand how you get me. Eight years, and your arms are still the safest place I've ever been.
There are bonds that can't be broken, even if you do spend a few hours hacking at them with an axe. ;)
I'm sorry, N. And I love you. I guess that's the long and short of it right there.
I was little at the time, which is how I excuse the complete stupidity of that statement.
Love fucks you up. It's supposed to. When you peel down all your shells and layers and leave yourself exposed, naked, raw, vulnerable - all your messed up squidgy bits pressed into someone else's - it's only a matter of time before one of you breathes wrong and scrapes the other right where they don't have any defenses.
It's a terrifying thing. There's no tightrope or anything. You just have to lay it out there and trust.
And then there are the times when you manage to have knock-down, drag-out, screaming matches with the one person you'd die for. Eight years, and somehow we still manage to have those like clockwork whenever we're supposed to be doing something special. Anniversaries, birthdays, you name it, we've mucked it up.
The flipside of it: eight years, and I still swoon a bit when I smell your neck. Eight years, and I still don't understand how you get me. Eight years, and your arms are still the safest place I've ever been.
There are bonds that can't be broken, even if you do spend a few hours hacking at them with an axe. ;)
I'm sorry, N. And I love you. I guess that's the long and short of it right there.