Oct 2014
No one wants to see you when it's the middle of the night and you're on the phone with your mother, fighting because you moved out of the country and there are no gun laws here and you're scared.
She says "come on, you've proved your point, come home. Come home"
And you look over at him and he's asleep with one hand resting on your thigh and you know you've never seen anything so great in your life,
So you take a deep breath, say goodbye, and hang up for the night.
Your mother doesn't understand this because he's not the kind of love you scream from the roof tops.
He's the kind of love that's quiet and unassuming, the kind that tucks you in at night, kisses your forehead, then works to fill in the cracks others have left in you.
He's the kind of love you follow across the ocean silently,
The kind of love where it's four am and you're tracing his spine with your lips, even though you've got to be up at 6.
The kind of love where you wake up in the morning and he's not there, but even so, every rise and fall of your chest is saying "I love you, I love you".
He's the kind of love where when he says "let's move to California", you feel like you're drowning in the Pacific Ocean, but you still don't want to learn to swim.
He's "wake me up before you go" and whispered conversations at 5 am.
He's the kind of love that overwhelms you because you've somehow managed to push almost everyone who's ever tried this away. By the time you realize, you're already in too deep, it's like a tidal wave and you're drowning (again).
He is going to your grandmothers house and playing Rock Paper Scissors, holding your feet and letting you win at thumb wars, while she watches and shakes her head because you're too old for these games. (She's secretly never seen you happier).
He is somehow falling in love deeper between those overstuffed cushions and shy looks,
He's waking up half way across the bed, watching as half an hour later he's somehow made it over to you with his arms around you and his head on your chest and you've never been happier that a thing like gravitational pull exists.
So when your mother tells you to come home for the five hundredth time, take a deep breath and remember that no one wants to see you sobbing in the middle of the night, but he would wake up if you said his name quietly enough.
She says "come on, you've proved your point, come home. Come home"
And you look over at him and he's asleep with one hand resting on your thigh and you know you've never seen anything so great in your life,
So you take a deep breath, say goodbye, and hang up for the night.
Your mother doesn't understand this because he's not the kind of love you scream from the roof tops.
He's the kind of love that's quiet and unassuming, the kind that tucks you in at night, kisses your forehead, then works to fill in the cracks others have left in you.
He's the kind of love you follow across the ocean silently,
The kind of love where it's four am and you're tracing his spine with your lips, even though you've got to be up at 6.
The kind of love where you wake up in the morning and he's not there, but even so, every rise and fall of your chest is saying "I love you, I love you".
He's the kind of love where when he says "let's move to California", you feel like you're drowning in the Pacific Ocean, but you still don't want to learn to swim.
He's "wake me up before you go" and whispered conversations at 5 am.
He's the kind of love that overwhelms you because you've somehow managed to push almost everyone who's ever tried this away. By the time you realize, you're already in too deep, it's like a tidal wave and you're drowning (again).
He is going to your grandmothers house and playing Rock Paper Scissors, holding your feet and letting you win at thumb wars, while she watches and shakes her head because you're too old for these games. (She's secretly never seen you happier).
He is somehow falling in love deeper between those overstuffed cushions and shy looks,
He's waking up half way across the bed, watching as half an hour later he's somehow made it over to you with his arms around you and his head on your chest and you've never been happier that a thing like gravitational pull exists.
So when your mother tells you to come home for the five hundredth time, take a deep breath and remember that no one wants to see you sobbing in the middle of the night, but he would wake up if you said his name quietly enough.
