You know what I have a strange, yet profound love for?
Couples that are not each other’s first loves, but they are, without a doubt, their last.
Couples who come together as adults, late in their lives, after they pass the treshold of young adult literature, and turn into classics. Who thumb through each other’s pages and find entire paragraphs crossed out, notes scrawled on the margins, dog-eared pages that are falling out as they turn, and still know they could read them over and over again.
Couples whose hands aren’t shaking with excitement when they reach for one another, but with reverence, wonderment. Whose hands don’t fumble like those of teenagers in a hayloft stealing clumsy kisses when their parents are not looking, but people who marvel at the immaturity they have long thought forgotten and greet love with practiced kisses fitting an old friend.
Couples who find each other in the mids of war and death, couples bathed in blood, couples whose worries and heartbreaks have marred lines into their faces, but still love fierce and bright.
I love that.