AN- I have a job interview in 7 hours. I can barely function on 9 hours of sleep. You do the math. :p Now, on w/ the (hopefully) creativeness.

You have a blue dragon on your arm. It makes me think of knights in old fairy tales (I always wanted to be that princess), and you need to shave. Your hair isn’t falling in your eyes (for once) so I can watch them flutter behind their respected lids as they watch whatever scenario is going on in your dreams. (Lately you’ve been talking about finally getting a band together, and you want me to sing, and last night you said you want to be a rock star when you grow up)

I’m listening to that band from California I like. The one that made you say, “Wow, you listen to weird stuff.” This coming from the boy that collects eclectic oddity acts like my grandmother collects garden gnomes. They’re not that bad, and I’m pretty sure you know that. (You just don’t understand why I’d like something that sounds slightly mainstream and reads like the English poets I love so very much, but can never remember their names)

It’ll be two months on Sunday. For us. You keep on claiming you think this relationship will last “for a very long time,” and when I finally asked what you meant by that you answered me with, “When you do you plan on dieing?” (And you hint at getting married in a castle in Europe and how fucked-up our kids will be, and how much you need me to feel loved, but you never really say the main facts out loud)

You make me feel beautiful with the most chauvinistic phrases sometimes (I always thought I’d get a sensitive and weak poet. Two out of three isn’t bad), and I hardly know what to do when you grab my ass in Wal-Mart, or rest your hand oh-so-casually on my thigh at our diner (our diner), or whistle at me when I walk out of the shower and can’t see the towel yet. I hardly know what I’m doing when I flip us over so I’m on top, or write you love-memos on the desktop, or challenge you to a wrestling match (Because frankly you could snap me like a twig, and I know you love it when I’m cute and girly and feminine and wear a skirt, because secretly you love a feminine pretty face at your side, but you’ve admitted yourself I’m more of man that you in some ways), because you were on the wrestling team and all I have is experience with grappling with my little brother when I was little and throwing punches with my mother when I was close to legal age.

“’Cause when I drink I just get so damn depressed,” comes over the headphones I’m using so you don’t wake up before you have to, and it reminds me of the way you can relate to my not-so-pleasant past. (Though I was all about the drugs and the vodka and the near-coma fuck sessions where I don’t remember my partner, while you have high-school pot stories and the occasional drunk-off-your-ass-with-your-underage-buddies experience. And I don’t mean to sound bitter, because I’m not, but honey, there’s nofuckingway that you giving into peer pressure compares to me losing my memory and sanity for 3 months) You don’t like using substances to dull your reality, though you used to. A lot. And I hated myself so much for escaping into powders and pills and needles and droppers and papers. A lot. (And we both agree that our love is the best drug, anyway)

Most of our friends didn’t think we’d get this far. We got a lot of raised eyebrows and rolled eyes when it was said I was moving in after only a few short days of being together. My own fucking parents were less put off (despite their “religious” tendencies and views that I’m a sinner and am going to hell for having sex) than my “best friend.” But by now I’m past caring about what people think, I’ve been through it all. And you just simply don’t give a shit because you know you don’t have to. (When your ultimate goal in life is “to be happy” it’s pretty easy to learn to not care about the nagging little details like conformity and following protocol)

AN- Aaaaaaaand I’m spent. That was fun :)