It’s important (and it has been said) to be fully in love with oneself prior to “giving yourself” or being in love. To feel the effect in the most immense of measured amounts, I will agree that as a true observation.
First and foremost, I do love myself. But it’s premature. Still growing to it’s full form. A bulb that wants to be pedals and in full flora-fleur bloom.
First and foremost, I do love myself. But it’s premature. Still growing to it’s full form. A bulb that wants to be pedals and in full flora-fleur bloom.
On Sundays, I feel unstable. Often in a bit of a blur from the weekend. Which is traditionally the time when one “has fun”, or takes time off/ relaxes. Oh, oh oh this is never the case!
And on Mondays, I usually feel like a wreck. Frantic, moody, and making irrevocably irrational statements or claims. Dear god, I loathe Mondays.
But these days aside, I think I’m in love. With him. The softest and smallest gestures always mean the most. The accidents that happen are always the most exciting, and the best to laugh about. The most inspirational, making for the best stories to tell, to gush about.
Like on my birthday when I started choking on the chocolate you gave me because I was too excited to be next to you (and about the fantastic film we saw). So I engulfed too much; with extreme distaste (oh rudeness) and haste. My cheeks full like a cherub squirrel, I began to wheeze and cough. I managed to squeak out “pull over”, and so we did. I began to feel nauseous, overwhelmed and out of breath. I bent over to get sick, and you came to comfort me. Just as you were about to pat my back, you screamed and I stood upright; alert. You slapped your knee and emitted a final yelp. Your pants had caught fire from a cigarette and you hadn’t noticed the burning. A burning hole right through your pants. I began to sweet talk to you. Cooing, assuring your safety, if you were burned etc.
In this absurd oddity that was five minutes in time, something made me closer to you.
And on Mondays, I usually feel like a wreck. Frantic, moody, and making irrevocably irrational statements or claims. Dear god, I loathe Mondays.
But these days aside, I think I’m in love. With him. The softest and smallest gestures always mean the most. The accidents that happen are always the most exciting, and the best to laugh about. The most inspirational, making for the best stories to tell, to gush about.
Like on my birthday when I started choking on the chocolate you gave me because I was too excited to be next to you (and about the fantastic film we saw). So I engulfed too much; with extreme distaste (oh rudeness) and haste. My cheeks full like a cherub squirrel, I began to wheeze and cough. I managed to squeak out “pull over”, and so we did. I began to feel nauseous, overwhelmed and out of breath. I bent over to get sick, and you came to comfort me. Just as you were about to pat my back, you screamed and I stood upright; alert. You slapped your knee and emitted a final yelp. Your pants had caught fire from a cigarette and you hadn’t noticed the burning. A burning hole right through your pants. I began to sweet talk to you. Cooing, assuring your safety, if you were burned etc.
In this absurd oddity that was five minutes in time, something made me closer to you.
Or when I awake in the dead of the night, shivering. I look over at you (the moon illuminating your shape), and see you have the entire blanket piled up on your torso. Piled! It looked like a flower. In full bloom; just like the one I want to be.
