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Some people were born with warm hands or cold hands so I start to imagine how your hands would feel like. Are they warm? Are they cold? Are they sweaty? Are they big? (compared to mine, most definitely) Are they still as soft as I remember? Or did they get crooked from all the field works you’ve done?  Will they still play the piano? Will they still write me love letters? Will your fingers fit the space between mine? Would you hold my hands so I don’t get lost?

You can’t just show up out of nowhere then disappear like that. Waiting, my ass. You probably don’t know even when you’re not around, and even when someone else was nice to me, still the very thought of you does things to me like turning my inside upside-down.

We only get to meet like 5 times this year, (though I didn’t expect it to be that much either). Well turns out living on our own doesn’t make me think of you any less.

You’re just all over the place, man. Not cool.

There were days when she was unbelievably happy, days she was unbearably sad. But he came in and made those happy days a little more believable, those sad days a little more bearable.

Here’s to love, magic, and teenage years.

Not even a good food.

Not even a good book.

Not even no one and not even close.

We’re just two regular people who shares a history and needs a place to rest, to stop living and just breathe, to lay out our dreams and fears, to have someone that will ask you what is what, to be brave, to feel young and whole, to help and be helped, and to be at home. And we’ve found it in each other.

 

I know I’ve found it in you.