I’m sitting on the counter in our new townhouse. You’re cooking pasta and singing along to Pandora, I’m asking you questions about the Bermuda Triangle and flying and revolving doors. It all feels like the first night you kissed me, but better. Comfortable. Easy.
Back then, it was new. We were both on our best behavior and I didn’t know what it felt like to kiss someone with a beard. We didn’t have sex. Instead, you showed me your favorite tattoo artist’s work while I showed you my actual tattoos. We baked cupcakes. We laughed like maniacs. I didn’t kiss you when you dropped me off in front of my apartment, and I didn’t look back when I closed the car door. It was supposed to be casual. It wasn’t a date. I didn’t see a future with you. I didn’t see a future with anybody. I was too broken, too independent, too afraid to admit that I needed somebody to love and love me back.
But two years, one change of mind, the phrase “I’m sorry,” and a fairytale reunion later, I’m falling asleep next to you in our bed, in our townhouse, in our home. We have a backyard and a living room. It all feels too good to be true, but when you squeeze my hand and smile, I know I’m not dreaming.
Two years ago, I thought I was better off alone. But the second you said “yes,” and “I love you too,” I knew. I can fall asleep alone, but in the end, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you.
I guess what I’m saying is it’s always been you for me. It will always be you for me. Two years and one townhouse later, I can promise that I’m not changing my mind this time around.
cut scene: “931″ / “so this is what home feels like”