Shall we revisit a few letters?
Yes. We shall.
If you're not interested, please feel free to scroll. Far away.
Wordweaver,
I figured it out, you know.
__________________________
You sat hunched over the paper cupped in one hand, pencil lingering over the blank mass, uncertain. You'd move it closer to the paper as if to write, then pause and withdraw the lead. Several times, back and forth back and forth.
The project had been to write a letter to ourselves from God. What would he say to us?
You seemed at a loss, face shadowed beneath your mess of brown curls and still, no words. Ghosts of thought formed and died as the micro-muscles in your hand flexed with want of words not yet formed.
Finally,
"Ai" .
A single japanese character marred the pure white of the now crinkled card stock.
When it came your turn to share, you hesitated.
Then you lifted the card and showed it to our group, sitting cross-legged in a circle on the theatre floor. We regarded the strange character with blank faces, awaiting explanation.
He gave me a single word.
It means love.
But... God often speaks to me in languages I do not understand.
Everyone nodded and the circle continued in the sharing of letters. I contemplated yours. Something didn't quite add up.
But then I had to share my letter.
I quietly wrapped my silent question up and hid it within my heart, to be revisited again, when I could contemplate the meaning without distraction.
The word and what you said pressed against my mind in wakefulness and in sleep.
But now, I know.
You are clever...
You said that, knowing the whole group with think you meant the language of Japanese itself.
God often speaks to me in languages I do not understand.
You did not mean the language, friend.
You meant the word.
Love.
Ai.
You can love, but being loved, that is hard.
But it will come, it will come. You just have to choose to accept it.
And Sire, I have loved you freely, unconditionally, this whole time.
- Poéme
Yes. We shall.
If you're not interested, please feel free to scroll. Far away.
Wordweaver,
I figured it out, you know.
__________________________
You sat hunched over the paper cupped in one hand, pencil lingering over the blank mass, uncertain. You'd move it closer to the paper as if to write, then pause and withdraw the lead. Several times, back and forth back and forth.
The project had been to write a letter to ourselves from God. What would he say to us?
You seemed at a loss, face shadowed beneath your mess of brown curls and still, no words. Ghosts of thought formed and died as the micro-muscles in your hand flexed with want of words not yet formed.
Finally,
"Ai" .
A single japanese character marred the pure white of the now crinkled card stock.
When it came your turn to share, you hesitated.
Then you lifted the card and showed it to our group, sitting cross-legged in a circle on the theatre floor. We regarded the strange character with blank faces, awaiting explanation.
He gave me a single word.
It means love.
But... God often speaks to me in languages I do not understand.
Everyone nodded and the circle continued in the sharing of letters. I contemplated yours. Something didn't quite add up.
But then I had to share my letter.
I quietly wrapped my silent question up and hid it within my heart, to be revisited again, when I could contemplate the meaning without distraction.
The word and what you said pressed against my mind in wakefulness and in sleep.
But now, I know.
You are clever...
You said that, knowing the whole group with think you meant the language of Japanese itself.
God often speaks to me in languages I do not understand.
You did not mean the language, friend.
You meant the word.
Love.
Ai.
You can love, but being loved, that is hard.
But it will come, it will come. You just have to choose to accept it.
And Sire, I have loved you freely, unconditionally, this whole time.
- Poéme
one of the hardest parts about growing up is realizing that relationships are not as magical or as effortless that we, as children, so naively believed they were.
love is not all about red roses on valentine's day, or waltzing in an empty room to no music. it is not always comprised of sexy, passionate kisses in the rain, or romantic candlelit dinners.
love does not equal that perfect, pristine wedding on the beach, no matter how much we wish it did.
no, sometimes love is broken dishes on the floor, and tempers so high they threaten to burst through the ceiling. it is a drunk prince charming or an slutty snow white. it is loneliness echoing and aching deep inside your bones and it is the feeling of tears drying on your face like wax.
love is not disney. love is complicated. love is messy.
when i was younger, i believed that you could title a loved one. oh, she's his fiance. oh, they're boyfriend and girlfriend. oh, he's her husband. it is only now, as a teenager, that i realize this is not how love works. there is not a name to fit every relationship, although we've certainly tried with terms like friends with benefits and fuck buddies.
we keep convincing ourselves that our happiness lies on one set of lips, that our lives would be beachy if we just managed to receive one kiss, or one wedding, or one boyfriend.
but love isn't about kisses or weddings or titles.
it's about how much you care, how long you will listen, how far you will go and to what lengths you will forgive.
the bottom line is, if you truly, deeply and honestly love someone, you will want them in your life, even if you never receive that kiss or that wedding.
~thegingergirl
breath, and your eyes were filled with tears. You smiled. Then you said...
"I just want to put an end to all of this. You're it for me. I don't want anyone else. I want you. For the rest of my life. Forever. I want to throw you in the passenger seat of my car and drive to the point of south america like they do in that spy movie. I want to take you out to fancy dinners. I want to propose to you, and watch you cry tears of joy. I want to watch you walk down the aisle towards me in a white dress looking more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. I want to watch your stomach get all round because our baby is growing in there. And I want to sing to it. I want to hold your hand while that baby is born. I want us to watch it grow up. I want to fight with you. I want you to get angry at me. I want you to scream and throw things. I want you to crumple into my arms because you hate to fight. I want to celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary together. I want to sit on a porch with you in the dark and drink wine and giggle. I want to watch your hair turn snow white. I want to die next to you. I want us to be together in heaven. I want you. I want you and me, to be right here. Together. For the rest of eternity. I want to wrap you in my arms and never let go. I just want to tell you that I love you. Now and forever. I love you. And I want you to love me, too."
With tears streaming down my face, I replied...
"Okay. I think that can be arranged."
So here marks the beginning of forever. The beginning of us.
<3
love is not all about red roses on valentine's day, or waltzing in an empty room to no music. it is not always comprised of sexy, passionate kisses in the rain, or romantic candlelit dinners.
love does not equal that perfect, pristine wedding on the beach, no matter how much we wish it did.
no, sometimes love is broken dishes on the floor, and tempers so high they threaten to burst through the ceiling. it is a drunk prince charming or an slutty snow white. it is loneliness echoing and aching deep inside your bones and it is the feeling of tears drying on your face like wax.
love is not disney. love is complicated. love is messy.
when i was younger, i believed that you could title a loved one. oh, she's his fiance. oh, they're boyfriend and girlfriend. oh, he's her husband. it is only now, as a teenager, that i realize this is not how love works. there is not a name to fit every relationship, although we've certainly tried with terms like friends with benefits and fuck buddies.
we keep convincing ourselves that our happiness lies on one set of lips, that our lives would be beachy if we just managed to receive one kiss, or one wedding, or one boyfriend.
but love isn't about kisses or weddings or titles.
it's about how much you care, how long you will listen, how far you will go and to what lengths you will forgive.
the bottom line is, if you truly, deeply and honestly love someone, you will want them in your life, even if you never receive that kiss or that wedding.
~thegingergirl
breath, and your eyes were filled with tears. You smiled. Then you said...
"I just want to put an end to all of this. You're it for me. I don't want anyone else. I want you. For the rest of my life. Forever. I want to throw you in the passenger seat of my car and drive to the point of south america like they do in that spy movie. I want to take you out to fancy dinners. I want to propose to you, and watch you cry tears of joy. I want to watch you walk down the aisle towards me in a white dress looking more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. I want to watch your stomach get all round because our baby is growing in there. And I want to sing to it. I want to hold your hand while that baby is born. I want us to watch it grow up. I want to fight with you. I want you to get angry at me. I want you to scream and throw things. I want you to crumple into my arms because you hate to fight. I want to celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary together. I want to sit on a porch with you in the dark and drink wine and giggle. I want to watch your hair turn snow white. I want to die next to you. I want us to be together in heaven. I want you. I want you and me, to be right here. Together. For the rest of eternity. I want to wrap you in my arms and never let go. I just want to tell you that I love you. Now and forever. I love you. And I want you to love me, too."
With tears streaming down my face, I replied...
"Okay. I think that can be arranged."
So here marks the beginning of forever. The beginning of us.
<3
I have to go.
Today, the doctors found a tumor in my brain. It is not likely that I will live for more than a few weeks from now. But there is a chance. I am going to Sweden to undergo a new form of treatment. The doctors have high hopes that I may survive.
Today, as I sat in that room-the whitewashed walls making the world look harsh- with my parents holding my hands, tears streaming down my mothers face, watching the Grim Reaper's greeting spew from the lips of a man with a stethoscope around his neck, I thought of you.
I thought of the freckles that are spattered across your nose, of your tattered red converse that you can't seem to give up, of your Beatles t-shirt, waiting for me in third period every day, and of the note that you left in my locker yesterday. I love you.
Now I am sitting in the airport, waiting to leave my whole life behind. My mother keeps smiling, nodding, saying that I will be back in a few months. That the treatment will work, and everything will be back to normal very soon. But her tears betray her. Her fear shines bright in her tired eyes.
But I am calm. For whatever is to come, I have no control over. I might die. Or perhaps, I will live. I am trying not to hope. For disappointment is my greatest downfall.
So, my dear. I have to go. But this is not goodbye. This is only, see you later. Whatever happens, I will see you again someday. I promise. But for now, this is my note in your locker.
I love you, too.
Today, the doctors found a tumor in my brain. It is not likely that I will live for more than a few weeks from now. But there is a chance. I am going to Sweden to undergo a new form of treatment. The doctors have high hopes that I may survive.
Today, as I sat in that room-the whitewashed walls making the world look harsh- with my parents holding my hands, tears streaming down my mothers face, watching the Grim Reaper's greeting spew from the lips of a man with a stethoscope around his neck, I thought of you.
I thought of the freckles that are spattered across your nose, of your tattered red converse that you can't seem to give up, of your Beatles t-shirt, waiting for me in third period every day, and of the note that you left in my locker yesterday. I love you.
Now I am sitting in the airport, waiting to leave my whole life behind. My mother keeps smiling, nodding, saying that I will be back in a few months. That the treatment will work, and everything will be back to normal very soon. But her tears betray her. Her fear shines bright in her tired eyes.
But I am calm. For whatever is to come, I have no control over. I might die. Or perhaps, I will live. I am trying not to hope. For disappointment is my greatest downfall.
So, my dear. I have to go. But this is not goodbye. This is only, see you later. Whatever happens, I will see you again someday. I promise. But for now, this is my note in your locker.
I love you, too.
I was perched in front of an old mirror, facing out to the sprawling gardens out the back of the manor. I was fidgeting with the single strand of pearls around my neck, looking at the long white dress that framed my body. The sound of the organ playing Pachelbel's Canon in D drifted in the open window, along with the chatter as my guests arrived and found their seats. A folded piece of cardstock lay on the marble coffee table at my feet, covered in the elegant script of the man waiting at the end of an aisle somewhere downstairs. A gentle breeze floated in, ruffling my perfectly styled curls, and I heard a knock at the door.
"Delivery." A man's voice called, and a hand, curled around a bouquet of orange dahlias slipped through the crack in the door. He set them on the long oak hutch near the door, and pulled the door closed. I rose, and strided to the flowers. A stiff white envelope protruded from the vase. I wondered who had sent them, who had known me well enough to deliver my favorite flowers on my special day.
I tore open the envelope, and yanked the heavy paper from its sleeve. It was folded in half, and the front side read, in sloppy cursive,
Natalie, my love.
I flipped it open and began to read the familiar slanted letters.
Hello my darling,
So many times I have sat down to write this letter to you, but I just haven't been able to find the words. It is only now, as the clock is ticking, you are slipping through my fingers, that I found my voice. Please forgive me for the belatedness of this letter. But, as you know, timing was never my strongsuit.
Ever since the day I watched you walk out my door, I have been chasing you. In one way or another, I was always trailing behind you, attempting to find the right time to win your heart, and make you mine forever. It wasn't until a few weeks ago, when I recieved my invitation in the mail, that I realized I am nearly too late.
I know that today is the day you have always dreamed of, and I'm sorry to soill its perfection, but I couldn't let you marry him without knowing.
Before you go through with this, I need you to know that I love you. I've always loved you. And I don't think I will ever stop. I'm not asking you to leave your husband, I just couldn't live the rest of my life wondering what might have been if only you had known.
So, my dear, before you take those last steps to the rest of your life, think of me. And if you love me, come to me. I will take you far away, to a place where there is only you and me. Forever.
I love you. Be happy.
Adam
I sunk to the wood floor, buried my tear streaked face in my hands. I thought of the freckles, spattered across his face. Of his cool hands on my waist, of his resonating laughter, of his amber eyes, of him. Of us.
Suddenly, there was a tap on the window pane. I stood, and tip-toed toward the soft, evening light. I looked down, from atop my stone perch...
And there he stood, grinning. His tie slightly askew, his hair mussed. He squinted up at me, and called, "Did you like the flowers?"
I spun around, caught the beauty of the six perfect stems, and in that moment realized that there is only one man that I want to spend the rest of eternity with. The only man that would remember that I love orange dahlias. I kicked off my shoes, and sprinted silently through the stone hallways of the manor. I rounded a corner, to find the patio doors. I saw him running, tears streaming down his face, towards me. I closed the distance between us, and flung myself into true love's arms.
"Delivery." A man's voice called, and a hand, curled around a bouquet of orange dahlias slipped through the crack in the door. He set them on the long oak hutch near the door, and pulled the door closed. I rose, and strided to the flowers. A stiff white envelope protruded from the vase. I wondered who had sent them, who had known me well enough to deliver my favorite flowers on my special day.
I tore open the envelope, and yanked the heavy paper from its sleeve. It was folded in half, and the front side read, in sloppy cursive,
Natalie, my love.
I flipped it open and began to read the familiar slanted letters.
Hello my darling,
So many times I have sat down to write this letter to you, but I just haven't been able to find the words. It is only now, as the clock is ticking, you are slipping through my fingers, that I found my voice. Please forgive me for the belatedness of this letter. But, as you know, timing was never my strongsuit.
Ever since the day I watched you walk out my door, I have been chasing you. In one way or another, I was always trailing behind you, attempting to find the right time to win your heart, and make you mine forever. It wasn't until a few weeks ago, when I recieved my invitation in the mail, that I realized I am nearly too late.
I know that today is the day you have always dreamed of, and I'm sorry to soill its perfection, but I couldn't let you marry him without knowing.
Before you go through with this, I need you to know that I love you. I've always loved you. And I don't think I will ever stop. I'm not asking you to leave your husband, I just couldn't live the rest of my life wondering what might have been if only you had known.
So, my dear, before you take those last steps to the rest of your life, think of me. And if you love me, come to me. I will take you far away, to a place where there is only you and me. Forever.
I love you. Be happy.
Adam
I sunk to the wood floor, buried my tear streaked face in my hands. I thought of the freckles, spattered across his face. Of his cool hands on my waist, of his resonating laughter, of his amber eyes, of him. Of us.
Suddenly, there was a tap on the window pane. I stood, and tip-toed toward the soft, evening light. I looked down, from atop my stone perch...
And there he stood, grinning. His tie slightly askew, his hair mussed. He squinted up at me, and called, "Did you like the flowers?"
I spun around, caught the beauty of the six perfect stems, and in that moment realized that there is only one man that I want to spend the rest of eternity with. The only man that would remember that I love orange dahlias. I kicked off my shoes, and sprinted silently through the stone hallways of the manor. I rounded a corner, to find the patio doors. I saw him running, tears streaming down his face, towards me. I closed the distance between us, and flung myself into true love's arms.
This morning, I awoke to a crisp white world. Last night's snow stuck, and my frosted window glistened as the warm morning sun streamed through.
I closed my eyes, and behind my lids, I remember this day, one year ago. You shook me awake, dragged me to the window, and squealed in delight. You were grinning from ear to ear, and I didn't care so much about the snow, just you. Beside me.
That day we went sledding. The insufficient amount of snow didn't phase us. We were too wrapped in each other to notice. I made a snow angel, and you flopped down next to me and made one of your own, wings touching mine. "Even when we're angels we'll be together."
For me, that was the first day of us. From that point forward, I was yours. I found myself daydreaming about our lives together, and it didn't matter what happened now. I knew I had you.
I was wrong.
Fate so cruelly tore you from my grasp.
And now you're gone.
I try not to think about that day, six weeks ago, when I got the call that shattered my heart. And I didn't get to say goodbye.
That is my biggest regret. I was far too weak. And I'm sorry for that. So it is today, on the first day of snow, that I will say goodbye. But as they say,
"Goodbyes are not forever. Goodbyes are not the end. They simply mean I'll miss you, until we meet again."
So goodbye, my love. I wish you were beside me now, grinning about the white powder dusting spread across this Montana land. But someone once told me...
"Even when we're angels we'll be together."
I love you, always.
I closed my eyes, and behind my lids, I remember this day, one year ago. You shook me awake, dragged me to the window, and squealed in delight. You were grinning from ear to ear, and I didn't care so much about the snow, just you. Beside me.
That day we went sledding. The insufficient amount of snow didn't phase us. We were too wrapped in each other to notice. I made a snow angel, and you flopped down next to me and made one of your own, wings touching mine. "Even when we're angels we'll be together."
For me, that was the first day of us. From that point forward, I was yours. I found myself daydreaming about our lives together, and it didn't matter what happened now. I knew I had you.
I was wrong.
Fate so cruelly tore you from my grasp.
And now you're gone.
I try not to think about that day, six weeks ago, when I got the call that shattered my heart. And I didn't get to say goodbye.
That is my biggest regret. I was far too weak. And I'm sorry for that. So it is today, on the first day of snow, that I will say goodbye. But as they say,
"Goodbyes are not forever. Goodbyes are not the end. They simply mean I'll miss you, until we meet again."
So goodbye, my love. I wish you were beside me now, grinning about the white powder dusting spread across this Montana land. But someone once told me...
"Even when we're angels we'll be together."
I love you, always.
I haven't spoken to you in three months. Haven't seen you since June. And I thought I was over you.
I was wrong.
Yesterday, I was sitting in my living room, swaddled in a blanket, drinking hot tea, engrossed in a book, when my phone rang. Harsh, in the silence.
When I answered it, a voice I recognized vaguely mumbled incoherently into my ear. She began to sob. After I allowed the woman to pull herself together, I realized who it was. Your sister.
We had only spoken a few times, only met once, but I could hear the panic. On her third attempt, I heard the words fall out. Words I never wanted to hear. "Ben was in an accident."
I don't remember the next few hours. The next image I can recall is my blurred vision of a flight attendant, and an generic voice asking me if I was all right. The woman sounded far away...and all I could hear were your sister's words. Ben was in an accident.
Ben was in an accident. Ben was in an accident. Ben was in an accident.
I have a faint memory of stumbling into the airport in the early morning light, of a middle eastern man jabbering away in the front seat of a yellow taxi, of your sister sitting on the bench inside the waiting room doors of the hospital, jumping up when I walked in, pulling me close to her, tears streaming down her cheeks, and whispering, "Thank you for coming. I didn't know who else to call."
And then everything is crystal clear. A man in green scrubs strides out from behind swinging double doors, introduces himself as Doctor Goode. I find this as a false omen. His name is meant to mislead us, meant to trick us into thinking everything's all right. If you were there, you probably would have been thinking the same thing. We've always had similar thoughts. The doctor sits down on a gray vinyl seat, rubs his eyes. He looks tired. He raises his eyes to mine, and I sit across from him. "Sarah, the nurse at the desk has some papers for you to sign." He doesn't break eye contact as she scurries away." He has a scar right above his right eyebrow. It's shaped like a half-moon. His blood shot eyes search my face, looking for signs of weakness, a signal that I can't handle what he's about to tell me. I'm too tired to do anything but listen.
"Just give it to me straight, doc." He smiles weakly.
"It doesn't look good. He has two broken legs, some broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, punctured lung, severe head trauma. there's not much brain activity." His eyes search me again, he's leaning forward, prepared for the worst. I only nod.
"When can I see him?"
"He doesn't look too good, but he's cleaned up. You can go in now if you like. I don't think it's smart to bring his sister, though. She's a bit unstable. And it's probably best to keep her in the dark on what the damage is."
I nod again. He rises, takes my arm, and leads me through the swinging doors. We walk down a long hall with gray doors on either side. The white washed walls make my eyes hurt, and I concentrate on the glowing green exit sign at the end of the hall. We stop in front of a gray door with a green clipboard hanging from the door. Room number 33. My lucky number.
I take a deep breath. Step inside. Hear the door click shut behind me. Open my eyes.
And there you are.
Tubes run from your mouth to a massive machine next to you, you are wrapped in a substantial layer of white gauze, and your legs are suspended in the air by cables connected to the ceiling.
But I can see your chest rising and falling. Hear the heart moniter pounding out the rhythm of your heart beat. You're alive.
So here I am. Sitting next to your bed, watching the yellow leaves tumble and dance from the maple trees outside your window. Listening to your machines beep and wheez. Occasionally your eyelids flutter. I am reassured by your cheekbones. They are unharmed, and I can see your freckles. And I know that you're still with me.
It's here. With your body lying next to me, spirit absent, that I realize I love you. I always have. Always will. I want to be with you for the rest of forever. I love you.
So, please, my dear, wake up.
But take your time,
for as long as you're alive, I'll be here.
Promise.
There are just a few of the many that reside in my bookmarks..
For many more...
letterstocrushes.com
Mack
I was wrong.
Yesterday, I was sitting in my living room, swaddled in a blanket, drinking hot tea, engrossed in a book, when my phone rang. Harsh, in the silence.
When I answered it, a voice I recognized vaguely mumbled incoherently into my ear. She began to sob. After I allowed the woman to pull herself together, I realized who it was. Your sister.
We had only spoken a few times, only met once, but I could hear the panic. On her third attempt, I heard the words fall out. Words I never wanted to hear. "Ben was in an accident."
I don't remember the next few hours. The next image I can recall is my blurred vision of a flight attendant, and an generic voice asking me if I was all right. The woman sounded far away...and all I could hear were your sister's words. Ben was in an accident.
Ben was in an accident. Ben was in an accident. Ben was in an accident.
I have a faint memory of stumbling into the airport in the early morning light, of a middle eastern man jabbering away in the front seat of a yellow taxi, of your sister sitting on the bench inside the waiting room doors of the hospital, jumping up when I walked in, pulling me close to her, tears streaming down her cheeks, and whispering, "Thank you for coming. I didn't know who else to call."
And then everything is crystal clear. A man in green scrubs strides out from behind swinging double doors, introduces himself as Doctor Goode. I find this as a false omen. His name is meant to mislead us, meant to trick us into thinking everything's all right. If you were there, you probably would have been thinking the same thing. We've always had similar thoughts. The doctor sits down on a gray vinyl seat, rubs his eyes. He looks tired. He raises his eyes to mine, and I sit across from him. "Sarah, the nurse at the desk has some papers for you to sign." He doesn't break eye contact as she scurries away." He has a scar right above his right eyebrow. It's shaped like a half-moon. His blood shot eyes search my face, looking for signs of weakness, a signal that I can't handle what he's about to tell me. I'm too tired to do anything but listen.
"Just give it to me straight, doc." He smiles weakly.
"It doesn't look good. He has two broken legs, some broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, punctured lung, severe head trauma. there's not much brain activity." His eyes search me again, he's leaning forward, prepared for the worst. I only nod.
"When can I see him?"
"He doesn't look too good, but he's cleaned up. You can go in now if you like. I don't think it's smart to bring his sister, though. She's a bit unstable. And it's probably best to keep her in the dark on what the damage is."
I nod again. He rises, takes my arm, and leads me through the swinging doors. We walk down a long hall with gray doors on either side. The white washed walls make my eyes hurt, and I concentrate on the glowing green exit sign at the end of the hall. We stop in front of a gray door with a green clipboard hanging from the door. Room number 33. My lucky number.
I take a deep breath. Step inside. Hear the door click shut behind me. Open my eyes.
And there you are.
Tubes run from your mouth to a massive machine next to you, you are wrapped in a substantial layer of white gauze, and your legs are suspended in the air by cables connected to the ceiling.
But I can see your chest rising and falling. Hear the heart moniter pounding out the rhythm of your heart beat. You're alive.
So here I am. Sitting next to your bed, watching the yellow leaves tumble and dance from the maple trees outside your window. Listening to your machines beep and wheez. Occasionally your eyelids flutter. I am reassured by your cheekbones. They are unharmed, and I can see your freckles. And I know that you're still with me.
It's here. With your body lying next to me, spirit absent, that I realize I love you. I always have. Always will. I want to be with you for the rest of forever. I love you.
So, please, my dear, wake up.
But take your time,
for as long as you're alive, I'll be here.
Promise.
I had a dream last night.
You and I were at a wedding, and the band played Ray LaMontagne's "A falling through". You pulled me from my seat, and we twirled across the wooden platform, white lights twinkling above our heads. You sang softly in my ear, and suddenly I looked down at my body, draped in white fabric. Then to you, looking handsome as ever in a black tux. You looked up at me, and smiled. Then I looked into your eyes, and saw the familiar twinkle. At that moment I realized...It's love.
I awoke with a smile on my face, and when I walked into first period, you lifted your eyes, like you sensed my presence. And, for the first time I saw it. I think it's been there along. I saw that twinkle in your eye. I grinned back at you. And I'm willing to bet that if you looked at my eyes, you would see a little twinkle there, too.
(This is where I found the song A Falling Through!)You and I were at a wedding, and the band played Ray LaMontagne's "A falling through". You pulled me from my seat, and we twirled across the wooden platform, white lights twinkling above our heads. You sang softly in my ear, and suddenly I looked down at my body, draped in white fabric. Then to you, looking handsome as ever in a black tux. You looked up at me, and smiled. Then I looked into your eyes, and saw the familiar twinkle. At that moment I realized...It's love.
I awoke with a smile on my face, and when I walked into first period, you lifted your eyes, like you sensed my presence. And, for the first time I saw it. I think it's been there along. I saw that twinkle in your eye. I grinned back at you. And I'm willing to bet that if you looked at my eyes, you would see a little twinkle there, too.
There are just a few of the many that reside in my bookmarks..
For many more...
letterstocrushes.com
Mack
The first time I saw you was July 8, 1933. My seventh birthday.
I was running through the meadow just south of town, chasing a fat squirrel with my new BB gun. I backed it up into an Aspen, but when I looked up through the leafy canopy, I didn't see a squirrel.
I saw a long-legged, wild-eyed, bare-foot little girl perched on a branch about ten feet above my head. She scowled at me, and I scowled right back.
"If you kill that poor little squirrel, I'm gonna kill you." She spat at me.
I watched in shock as she swung from the branch, and landed on her toes a foot in front of me. "Got it?" She raised her eyebrows.
I gulped. She must have seen the fear in my eyes. She grinned, and took off running in the opposite direction. And I found my seven year old legs running after her. But she was too quick for me.
My darling, I haven't stopped chasing you since.
I found a friendship in you that no one else could provide. We spent hours in the creek, catching critters and making mud pies. We caught lightning bugs in mason jars until our mothers called us in for bed. We went to the swimming hole, and when our mothers told us not to go on the old rope swing, we did it anyway. You were the first to sign the cast on my broken arm, resulting from a snapped rope. And the winter I got pneumonia, you were the only one who sat inside with me instead of going sledding.
Then the hormones kicked in, and you were the only girl I wanted. But you had no time for that.
Then, in '44, the night before I left for training camp, you kissed me on the porch, with the lightning bugs buzzing all around us. "I'll wait." You whispered. Then you took off running through the corn field, taking the shortcut home.
And wait you did. When I got back home, you were sitting up in that old Aspen, waiting for me. And when I got down on my knee, and pulled out my grandmother's ring, you said, "Yes, I suppose that it was gonna happen eventually. Now's a good a time as any."
Then the babies started coming. Six of them. You were exhausted. And at times we were like two lost little puppies. But they all turned out all right. Now they're all grown up, with babies of their own. And I'd say we did a pretty good job.
As the years went by you still stayed the same. Still that little bare-foot spitfire I met on my seventh birthday. And I kept chasing you.
And now you're gone. I'm all alone. Well, I've got the kids, but they've got their own lives to live. They haven't got the time to make mud pies or catch lightning bugs with me. And besides, I wouldn't want to do those things with anyone but you.
I miss you, dear. So very much. And I don't believe it will be much longer til I join you. But until then, wait for me. Just like you always have. Just perch yourself up in that Aspen, and I will be along in just a little while.
I was running through the meadow just south of town, chasing a fat squirrel with my new BB gun. I backed it up into an Aspen, but when I looked up through the leafy canopy, I didn't see a squirrel.
I saw a long-legged, wild-eyed, bare-foot little girl perched on a branch about ten feet above my head. She scowled at me, and I scowled right back.
"If you kill that poor little squirrel, I'm gonna kill you." She spat at me.
I watched in shock as she swung from the branch, and landed on her toes a foot in front of me. "Got it?" She raised her eyebrows.
I gulped. She must have seen the fear in my eyes. She grinned, and took off running in the opposite direction. And I found my seven year old legs running after her. But she was too quick for me.
My darling, I haven't stopped chasing you since.
I found a friendship in you that no one else could provide. We spent hours in the creek, catching critters and making mud pies. We caught lightning bugs in mason jars until our mothers called us in for bed. We went to the swimming hole, and when our mothers told us not to go on the old rope swing, we did it anyway. You were the first to sign the cast on my broken arm, resulting from a snapped rope. And the winter I got pneumonia, you were the only one who sat inside with me instead of going sledding.
Then the hormones kicked in, and you were the only girl I wanted. But you had no time for that.
Then, in '44, the night before I left for training camp, you kissed me on the porch, with the lightning bugs buzzing all around us. "I'll wait." You whispered. Then you took off running through the corn field, taking the shortcut home.
And wait you did. When I got back home, you were sitting up in that old Aspen, waiting for me. And when I got down on my knee, and pulled out my grandmother's ring, you said, "Yes, I suppose that it was gonna happen eventually. Now's a good a time as any."
Then the babies started coming. Six of them. You were exhausted. And at times we were like two lost little puppies. But they all turned out all right. Now they're all grown up, with babies of their own. And I'd say we did a pretty good job.
As the years went by you still stayed the same. Still that little bare-foot spitfire I met on my seventh birthday. And I kept chasing you.
And now you're gone. I'm all alone. Well, I've got the kids, but they've got their own lives to live. They haven't got the time to make mud pies or catch lightning bugs with me. And besides, I wouldn't want to do those things with anyone but you.
I miss you, dear. So very much. And I don't believe it will be much longer til I join you. But until then, wait for me. Just like you always have. Just perch yourself up in that Aspen, and I will be along in just a little while.
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