Oh, poop.

It isn't that the realization of your eventual return isn't sure.
It isn't a(n insecure) belief in waning affections and the sparkling allure in shiny new toys.
I don't believe the world will stop turning in your absence.
It's that I just miss you.
And it hurts.
I feel your absence.
Constantly.
And the memory of you will never replace the real thing.
So here I sit, in one of your very-much-so-overlarge shirts. The ones that are almost-dresses, brushing far past mid-thigh, soft and worn.
Remembering
Your smell.
Your warmth.
Your laughter.
Hugs.
Kisses.
Love.





Just come back safe you doofus.
(Days left: 52)

Picture of a Picture

Things between us aren't easy sometimes, but I'm still glad to be working on them with you.

"If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up the men to gather wood, divide the work and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless sea." —Antoine de Saint-Exuper

Making popcorn isn't the same without you to fight over it with.

New Beginning Coming Soon

But until then, let this tide over you.

Lil' Buck dancing to James Blake's "Limit to Your Love".

When I first saw you, I'm like "Aw shit, goddamit look what God did. Hail Mary Jesus!"

And if your life truly flashes in front of you, when you die 
Just know the best time of my life has been loving you.
I love you, you know.



I tried to write down how I loved you, and why I loved you, and why you are better than anything I could have imagined for myself. I tried to describe the curve of your shoulder, the warmth of your breath, the smoothness of your skin. You escape any attempts I have in pinning you down in a page, in my impossible mission of words to say: There. There it is. One more dimension of love. One more way it exists, and I never even knew. 

They settled down for the night in his small, undersized, twin bed. She closed her eyes and let exhaustion wash over her. Next, the sensations. The weight of the blanket. The warmth of his body. The breeze on her toes, peeking out rebelliously from the blankets. Then, a loving hand combing through her hair. Eyes fluttered open to her favorite face, struggling to keep his sweet eyes open in the soft glow of the lamplight. It was one of their last nights together before the trip. A trip. Separation. Soft smiles and a kiss goodnight. Hands, arms curled around one another, they slept.


The way you move is so beautiful. There is unexpected grace in your hands and the tilt of your chin. 
There is monumental strength in your character. Because of your stark, utter lack of sentimentality and romance, your words only ring true. No sly, sleek, empty words meant to only make me happy. You mean it.
The patience and awareness of our differences. You comprehend what I do not, see what I can not. 

You are better than anything I could have imagined for myself.

Wrapped up in the universe

Bare feet padding across the room, she came to say goodnight. Tall as she was, the blanket, an inaccurate depiction of the sun, still dragged across the carpet while enveloping her. Without invitation and fear of rejection, she tucked herself into his lap, to have his arms automatically hold her. A peck on the cheek, and a kiss in her hair, he gently sent her off to bed.

But before that, he held her, and it satisfied.

overheard from the living room

"I once knew this judge. This girl was so black..."

"....Can she say that?"

&

"Hey! Don't hate on the gay."