For once there is no misery, no dramatic prose, no salt. It isn’t endless poetry I’m bawling my eyes into. There is no self destruction. Instead, it is wide smiles and nudging jokes, healthy support and adoration. Simple reassurance like holding your hand in the supermarket, knowing that you wouldn’t loosen the grasp, no matter what.
It is already an adventure. Wondering how we’re going to handle being a bit broke, a bit lost in a new city, a bit misunderstood in our joy. Airplanes are like buses to us. London, Berlin, Paris. Does it even matter? The world seems so small. So conquerable. The cities I used to run to, to get away from the hurtful memories of heartbreaks are all fuzzy figments stored in my mind. Something I recall when I can’t believe how lucky I got with you.
I know it will be tough. It won’t always be sunshine and butterflies, and that’s okay. Because I sure like the way the rain drops sound from your bed. We will make it. With soap bubbles in our hair, the past a trivial memory, morning jogs with the dog, and with you by my side.
This is when I realise – we are the ones we’ve been waiting for. And I have finally found a name for the word ‘love’.