Three Years, Celebrat-ed.

 

Can you believe it? The boyfriend and I just celebrated 3 years of togetherness.

 

Not that I find it all that shocking.  He is that oddly shaped puzzle piece that fits perfectly into all my twisted nooks and crannies. 

I often tell friends that I keep waiting for that newly 'wed' stage to slowly fade, for all the sweet unexpected kisses and giggly butterflies to somehow disappear and be replaced by routine and the dreaded feeling of knowing each other too well.  But, thankfully, we only seem to fall more perfectly in love together the more we explore our relationship together.

Three years is only the beginning.  I hope to have many more years of this bliss.

Thanks for the flowers and for spoiling me rotten every other day of the year, bab.

Believ-ed in Truth.

My weekend in a nutshell: sunset bus rides, pink cherry blossoms, national monuments, fresh seafood, and family. Leave out the lost wallet, ex-boyfriend sighting, and massive Sunday hangover and we have a winner.

The truth is what you believe, and I believe life can be beautiful despite itself. And so it is.

Lov-ed you ever since.

I'd wish upon a star, but none as bright as you.
I'd wish upon an hour, but none of them will do.
I'd pluck a flower, but none smell as sweet.
I'd give you my forever, but you know its yours to keep.

What gift is left to give,
To the man made of dreams?
When all that's left to give,
is what's left of me.

I'd say a little prayer, but God already knows.
I'd tell you a story, but you know how it goes.
I'd kiss a million frogs, but you're the only prince.
I loved you from the start, and I've loved you ever since.

Doom-ed.

I am a hopeless romantic.

Why all romantics are labeled “hopeless?” Would pragmatists then be labeled "hopeful?" Is it really the truth that if one is romantic at heart, he is destined for a dreary future—-a life of gray and predictable dullness? That's seems a bit backwards.  Wouldn't you expect that the romantics are the one's who have hope--hope that one day the world (or at least their world) will be filled with love?  And not just love, romance, love twisted and folded into poetry and Valentine's cards and rendez-vous in dark cafe corners.

Is it hopeless to believe that flowers were meant to be given? That the lips' second and sweetest function is to be kissed? That chocolate should always come in little red, heart-shaped boxes?

Is it hopeless to love nothing better than to catch him looking at you across the room? To want to exclaim to the world that you've finally found what everyone else spends their life looking for?

Well, if it is hopeless, then I'm happy to be doomed.

pic: weheartit

Imperfect, perfect-ed.

My sister always jokes that I want the greatest life that has ever existed. Every time someone brings us flowers, I make a comment about always wanting fresh cut flowers in the house to brighten up the rooms. I make lists of books I think will enrich my life. I wade through thousands of slides, looking for a piece of art to put over my bed, but never can decide on just one. I choose what I eat not based on nutritional value or caloric content, but by how pleasurable it feels on the tongue, how satisfying it is. Sometimes I think I spend so much time trying to create the perfect life that I forget about all the perfectly imperfect things that make life so beautiful.

Was it wrong to want all of these things in my life? Perhaps not at all. In a way, I believe they all stand for something greater—-a material representation of things that are difficult to identify and nearly impossible to recreate. The books may stand for the knowledge and enlightenment I actively seek throughout my life. The flowers may represent a simple, natural beauty I long for in all aspects of being. The sweets and fresh fruit and delicious, satisfying meals are the ultimate basic pleasures—a way of indulging the senses, exploring a realm of delectable treats.

Through all of this, the writing has always been there. An outlet, a pastime, a love. And perhaps, if all else disappears—if the books are all read, the flowers wilt and die, the food looses its taste, the writing will still be there to live, to love me back. Because, after all, I've perfected imperfect.

Lov-ed, Actually.

It was so bright that afternoon I thought I was seeing everything under a magnifying glass.  All the vibrant colors of spring were intensified to the point where my spirit was bursting with poems.  We lay together as the cool breeze entered through the open windows and whizzed around the fan.  Sweat collected on his upper lip and made him taste like the sea as we kissed.  Softly, he tickled my belly button as I giggled wildly.  Suddenly, the rhythmic sound of a car’s motor made its way up the driveway.

“A delivery for you,” someone called from downstairs.  I looked at him knowingly.  Anxiously, I tumbled down the stairs, colliding with a vase of carnations.

“Carnations?!” he yelled suspiciously.  “I ordered a bouquet of exotic flowers!”

But that was just it – our love wasn’t exotic.  It was ordinary, but beautiful just the same.  The relationship, like the flowers, eventually wilted, but the vase remains, waiting to be filled again.