And it sounds just like a song.
So I sit here by my beautiful, new dining table, carefully selected and picked up just this weekend.
The apartment is sold. The metaphorical ink is dry on the new lease.
It's raining, but I'm looking at my plants and flowers.
The bouquet is made of Lego. It's to make sure I always have flowers waiting for me, he says.
Smart ass, I say.
There's a ring on my finger.
He's quite smug about that.
The tea beside me is scalding, ginger and lime.
I'm listening to music I haven't listened to in years. I still know all the lyrics.
My fingers are poised to write for the first time in what feels like a small eternity.
It's still raining and he's out running.
We're still finding out what to hang on the walls.
I've been writing about love for as long as I've put a pen to paper, but the cliché of it is, the more of it I have in my life, the more difficult it is to write about.
How can words possibly describe all of this, all these feelings and actions and memories we're making?
How do I describe the softness of him as he sleeps, his breath a whisper across my neck and his arm a trusting weight around my waist?
I didn't know that this, all of this, was for me.
I didn't know.
But it is, god, it is.
One day I'll even maybe find the words for it?
The apartment is sold. The metaphorical ink is dry on the new lease.
It's raining, but I'm looking at my plants and flowers.
The bouquet is made of Lego. It's to make sure I always have flowers waiting for me, he says.
Smart ass, I say.
There's a ring on my finger.
He's quite smug about that.
The tea beside me is scalding, ginger and lime.
I'm listening to music I haven't listened to in years. I still know all the lyrics.
My fingers are poised to write for the first time in what feels like a small eternity.
It's still raining and he's out running.
We're still finding out what to hang on the walls.
I've been writing about love for as long as I've put a pen to paper, but the cliché of it is, the more of it I have in my life, the more difficult it is to write about.
How can words possibly describe all of this, all these feelings and actions and memories we're making?
How do I describe the softness of him as he sleeps, his breath a whisper across my neck and his arm a trusting weight around my waist?
I didn't know that this, all of this, was for me.
I didn't know.
But it is, god, it is.
One day I'll even maybe find the words for it?