He has this way that he whispers in my ear. It's so quiet like the sound of a breeze blowing through the grass. He blows through me. I can feel his chemistry merging into mine and I can feel when it passes through.
Have you ever felt the sun? Have you ever felt the warmth of the sun on your skin? Have you ever bathed in its glory and rested under its gaze? Have you ever been in love?
I married the sun, on a humid, horrible day, I married the sun. And on that day he became my beginning and my end. He became the force from which I would move beyond myself. He became the lesson in loving someone other than myself. He became the equation necessary to create something bigger than myself. He became my name.
It's funny how stories go. I had a story before him. I had a story that was tragic and awful and melodramatic. I had a story that I rarely tell, and that I honestly don't think about very often. It has been written, it has been published, it has been exposed. After all of that, it was bound up nicely, put on a shelf, and no longer the central figure in my nightmares. It still exists, it was what it was, but it isn't the engine that propels me to be the person I am today.
I never knew what it meant to write the story of us. I don't really know how to do it. How does one find words to explain touch? How can I make you close your eyes and get lost in my happy place? How could I ever find the words that could well enough paint the picture of elation that I feel when he is sitting next to me? How can I describe to you his heart beat, or his laugh, or the feeling that swells in my body when he plays? I love watching him play. I love watching him grow and change. I love discovering how God has created in him the ability to be a man.
Love does conquer all. But not in the way that so many people think. Love doesn't heal anything. Love doesn't take away agony, or pain. Truthfully, love is often the central figure in brokenness and heartache. It is often the key to tear-filled moments, and sleepless nights. Love is what hurts more than anything else in the world. But it doesn't stop there. Love kills you, over and over and over again. That's what love is... it's dying. It's dying to yourself, and being born to someone else. Love is giving up your ideas of the moment, and allowing someone else's Mona Lisa to take center stage. Love is watching their favorite movie, even if you don't want to. Love is watching them play video games, because they want to play, but they just want you near them too. Love is making them dinner, because it puts a smile on their face. Love is snuggles, when you're hot. Love is kisses when you're irritated. Love is rolling around in the grass, when you don't want to get dirty. Love is moving beyond what you think you want, and discovering what you can give. Love is dying to yourself.
It took six years for me to realize that I was killing him. It took me six years to see how I oppressed him, even though it was unintentional. It took me six years to give up and stop trying to win all the time. It took me six years to learn that losing, is often times winning. It took me six years to let him be a man, to let him be my man. It took me six years of staying as rigid as possible, to learn that breaking ends up making everything so much better.
Love is finally wanting to stay awake, because reality is so much better than your dreams. Love is having a new beginning, and a five lettered end.
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