these are things that I could not tell you;
things that remind me of you when I want nothing more than to forget;
things that have gone wrong;
things that have gone right;
things that will never happen;
things that are your fault,
my fault,
the faults of no one;
these are things that we did not do and will not let go of
Dinner and drinks and orange juice when we get to your lovely apartment. Those looks I’m so used to before our lips collide and then the question, “Would you like to leave the kitchen?” And so we do and stop in the hallway and my back on the wall and here is your bedroom. My legs, your arms, your height, my hair (always too much hair). How you can pick me up and when you kiss my forehead I don’t get mad and you laugh at the stupid things I say and are appropriately nerdy. And how I can read aloud to you in the morning and that is OK and lying together is just swell.
I shouldn’t count so much so soon but it’s just so nice.
So I’m happy. And I’m swooning. For a boy whose name starts with the letter J and who is older than me. And he is the third of this kind and I haven’t learned whether “bad things come in threes” or “the third time’s the charm” but I’m hoping it’s the latter because he makes me smile and laugh and one other thing that no one else had made me to, at least not to this degree (ok, it happened with the second J but not nearly this much).
Do you know how wonderful it is to be happy? And finally in the place I want to be.
