I want her to know I admire her.
I want her to know I support her.
I want her to know I believe in her.
I want her to know I stand by her.
I want her to know I trust her.
I want her to know I’m proud of her.
I want her to know I’m in awe of her.
I want her to know she’s beautiful.
I want her to know she’s amazing.
I want her to know I’m thankful for her.
I want her to know she’s in my heart.
okay so this post is wrong but what the heck it’s a Tumblr post, right, it’s mostly a joke, only it’s so perfectly echoing an idea I’ve seen elsewhere too, from actual paid critics and academic critiques, that Hugo “wasn’t writing for emotional teenagers”, that he’d be horrified by fandom, that he was too High and Erudite for the likes of screaming theater kids and emotional teenagers
Victor Hugo knew what fandom was. And he absolutely LOVED it.
When I saw you, I knew I was going to love you.
Parts of me were afraid,
But never resistant.
The rest of me breathed you in
And sighed with relief.
The rest of me thought,
When I kissed you, I thought,
“Maybe God IS real.”
Because your skin made me want to sing hymns.
Because your caress was a blessing, a baptism.
Because there was no way
You were created just as simply as I had been.
Created as a universe’s afterthought.
You were planned.
Something out there saw the terrifying beauty of our cosmos
And put them in your eyes.
And it said,
“This… This is my masterpiece.”
An I couldn’t agree more.
In another world, we meet in a coffee shop in college. We come from different states, maybe even different countries. We have different friends and different homes and somehow, things work out for the better.
In another world, we meet in high school. You’re older and I’m new and everything goes the way it does in the movies. We kiss at prom and live happily ever after.
In another world, we meet as adults. Maybe we work together, or have mutual friends, or maybe we just bump into each other in the street and fall in love.
In this world, we meet as children. Too young and wide-eyed and empty, waiting for life to fill us with who we are. We know nothing of life or love, but we know everything of each other. In this world, though, that is not enough. So I cannot help but imagine a different one.
is a lot like
waiting for spring:
it’s going to be beautiful,
and you know that it’s
destined to happen;
you know that it’s
just a matter of
know that it’s