(*Full image credit to Mckay Savage*)
Our words danced through the air like paper aeroplanes, legs occasionally brushing, observing quietly as a giddy, subtle-cleavage-and-self-deprecating-anecdotes 9pm turned into a sedated, content 2am.
I didn't know then that I would fall in love with him. I just knew that he was a man I liked sitting next to.
He was a man that I liked listening to. He was a man with kind eyes and a rare, deliberate smile that seemed to face the entire world for a moment... And then me. 'Now' felt more extraordinary with him in it. And I didn't know where things would go, but I knew that this was not nothing. We didn't kiss as I got out of his car, and that was okay, because sometimes the thought of kissing somebody is just as enchanting as the kiss itself. I didn't regret telling him my self-penned farmyard jokes at the end of the night. He laughed at them. That realisation made me smile before I fell asleep.
Sometimes, when we're laying in bed, legs entangled, and I'm fighting to stay awake against his body so I don't lose the marvel of that simple moment to the unconsciousness of sleep, my mind flitters back to that night: the start of it all, the spontaneous collision of two lives that lead to this. He doesn't laugh at my farmyard jokes anymore, and that's okay.
Somewhere in between thinking, 'I like sitting next to this man', and 'his is a face I like waking up to', I drowned in the details of him: those kind eyes, that rare, deliberate smile that seems to face the entire world for a moment...And then me. The thought of kissing him is still just as enchanting as the kiss itself.
I can't pinpoint the exact moment that I fell in love with him; I can only recall the moment that I wanted the words to scatter across the sky like paper aeroplanes. Unmistakably present. But peaceful. He is not the only man I've ever loved, but he is the only man I have ever loved like this. I just do. It just is. 'You reminded me how good it can be to feel this way about somebody. You reminded me how lovely I can be.' I said to him once. I may not love him forever, but this will never be nothing. And sometimes, that realisation makes me smile before I fall asleep.
Relationships are like paper aeroplanes: sometimes they fly far and wide, and sometimes they don't. Sometimes, they get damaged and torn apart, and sometimes, they get taped back together and fly differently. Ours is just journeying, peacefully, basking in the sunshine above the clouds. We have no idea where it's going. And that's okay. I like that. 'Now' feels more extraordinary with him in it.
Our words danced through the air like paper aeroplanes as we sat, legs occasionally brushing, observing quietly as a giddy, subtle-cleavage-and-self-deprecating-anecdotes 9pm turned into a sedated, content 2am.
Our words still dance through the air like paper aeroplanes. Everything is the same and so perfectly different all at once.
And sometimes, that realisation makes me smile before I fall asleep.