Airports are intriguing lately.
They're your refuge.
They wake when ordinary people are in a sleepy bliss.
They hold secrets.
And runaways.
And hidden doors to the unknown.
Tender kisses.
Solemn cries.
Broken hearted lovers
No chance to say goodbye.

These airports feel things only poets seem to write down.
Emotion fills the halls.
As passengers avoid the fall..

This airport seems so lonely.
Take me with you.
Let us fly.

Have you ever had that stomach churning, hurricane kind of love?
The kind that makes you stand on your bed at 3am shaking your hair and your head and wiping your face with excitement filled hands.
Have you ever loved someone so much that they begin to slowly invade your thoughts and all the bits in between?
I've had that kind of love only once.
And it's the best kind of love.

You're coming back.
For eight days.
In September.
I don't know where I'll be then.
Obviously with you.
But I don't know if I'll be at school.
Or have a job.
Or just trying to find ways to fill the days.
All I know is you're coming back.
And you're staying in a ****** apartment.
And I'm going to be with you.
And I kind of want to take you to Dublin zoo..
Just for some fun.
But I guess we'll see where it goes.
Youre gonna busk on grafton street.
Then we can have the day.
In stephens green park.
Along the river Liffey.
Wherever.

One thing I'm sure about is that they all disapprove.
I know you two days they say.
That's not long enough.
He could be a serial killer.
A kidnapper.
Love.
They say.
You're a child.
You know nothing of love.
Crazy girl.

But I know for a fact that I love you.
And I know for a fact that fate has something planned for us.
I can feel it.

Hes literally paying for a flight to be with me for 8 days.
What the ****?
He's coming back just to be with me.
This is crazy.
I love him.
Oh my god.
And for once someone feels the same about me.

I can't name or count how many guys I've looked at approvingly thinking 'I'd love to **** him' or whatever people say when they give that approving eye glance and nod thing. Of course I do it. All the time. I'm eighteen for gods sake. I can look!

However,

I can count all the guys I've genuinely fancied on both hands.

I can count the guys I've really liked on one hand.

I can count the guys I've kissed on *******.

I can count the guys I've actually called my boyfriend on one finger.

But that is not the man I love.

None of them are.

Because he's not a statistic.

He's a part of my soul.

I cannot stop writing about you. Every little thing I can remember, I've written it down.
I've written you down.
A permanent stain on these sheets.