i shouldn't love the way your hands trace mine so much,
i shouldn't love the way you lean yourself into me so much,
for love is a beautiful, great, big disaster.
i'll take the chance even if you grow old of me or i grow old of you
or we grow out of each other like pants or shoes do.
this,
my thumb rubbing our intertwined hands.
this,
your eyes that stare way too long for me to get red when you call me sweet words.
this,
your blush clustered cheeks.
this,
how we hold each other.
this,
how i promise you i will never grow old of you.
this
is a love catastrophe.
it's grand, it's big, it's beautiful.
i want to live for you.
i want to take you to art museums
and picnics
and cheesy movie dates.
i drowned myself in your utter perfection and drank forbidden wine as i thought of how we'd end up.
our love isn't a disaster,
it isn't a tragedy,
it's a celebration.
the way we love and feel is art and it smells like cake and feels like warm laundry.