to you

I used to have my writing. It defined the edges of the world of make believe that I fooled myself into thinking was a fairy tale, but the princess turned out to be an evil witch, and I was hardly a knight in shining armor. I was tainted. Tarnished. Unpolished. Writing was what drew the two of us together, once – long ago. It seems like so long ago now. How could I be that person that I used to be? It seems foreign, like a vague inclination, a shadow of the person I am now and I find it’s memory to be slightly repugnant. But back then, writing was what made me special. It gave me an edge, a light to shine in the darkness that set me apart. I don’t view my writing the same way anymore. I don’t view myself the same way anymore.

With you, it’s not about the writing, it’s about living. I can craft words around your name, dance along once-hidden phrases, twist and turn speech into a finely honed machine, and you love to see it – but it’s the living that makes the difference. I don’t have to search for words to convey my meanings, locked behind pen and paper. With you, every moment, every touch is a poem in and of itself, and I couldn’t possibly conceive of catching the description of the way your eyes sparkle with starlight when there isn’t a light on in the room. I couldn’t begin to speak of the pressure of your touch, anywhere – everywhere, the way it makes me feel. The way we’re constantly in physical contact in one form or another, no matter where we are – curled up on the couch – my hand resting against the small of your back moving through a crowded room, the way your fingers rest on my leg as we’re driving in the morning on the way to work before either of us is fully conscious. I notice them all. How could I not? And not one of them is insignificant or taken for granted.

We’ve come a long way in 8 months. I dreamed once that “the only exception” would ring true for someone that I would love, that someone someday would be able to say that to me, not only in sweetness, but in reality – and you have. The little signs are still everywhere – a perfect silver key to match your perfect silver heart that we both picked up randomly years ago. Perhaps we knew then what was buried under the subconscious, that needed the time and maturity to be let out into the world at large – the smashing together of our islands, forming a continent – small enough that we face little threat – big enough to make a cozy home.

I’m not saying this as well as I mean to – my fingers are out of touch with the words that used to be my safety net – my default setting, to go to written form when I couldn’t speak the sentiment correctly. We have no problem speaking. But I know these things, I remember. I remember the way it once was, and know the way it is now. The way I hope it will always be.

I’m not looking to you to be my fairy tale princess, and I’m no prince charming. The world is not a fairy tale kingdom, full of good and evil, the moral of the story and a happily ever after. This may just be heaven, but it’s life – real life, and the beauty of this story that is still being written every single day as we speak is hope enough for me in a certain and beautiful future.

I don’t need to know how the story ends – but I need you to realize I love the way it’s being written – and that’s the only thing that matters to me.