🫶🏼 For (you). ❤️

we’ll call it our cover.

Let’s give this a go, yeah?
Let’s meet up somewhere neither of us knows and we can just be.
Let’s buy a couple of empty postcards and draw ourselves exactly as we are.
Right now.
We’ll call it our cover.
And we’ll hold it to the highest regard of art.
Because it is.
Because love is.
But it’s mostly so we can remember the magic of this beginning.
So we can remember the laughs before anything else.
These awkward sketches of our goofy faces perfectly depicting the glow of what makes love so damn magical.
And so damn imperfect.
It’s the imperfect that scares most people away.
But that’s the part I’m here for.
Anything less isn’t real.
Anything less is too cheap.
Trust me.
Anything less will fall apart within the first 3 weeks.
Just ask Temu or Shein.
Or any of their consumers.
Anything less isn’t worthy of filling an empty postcard.
And I still have all of yours.
I keep them on my fridge.
I see them and smile.

Let’s give this a go, yeah?
I don’t believe in love the way that I used to.
I used to think it was perfect.
I know better now.
My sketches prove it better with the flaws.
I told you before that I can’t draw.
This is still true.
Right now.
But that doesn’t stop me from trying.
And it doesn’t stop me from loving my messy depictions of exactly what I see.
I am happy for every single flaw.
There will always be an inexplicable beauty drawn within the most authentic of lines.
I see that now.
Beauty isn’t always beautiful.
I see that now.

Let’s give this a go, yeah?
There will always be a fear of what any of this means.
And it’s up to us to define that “fear”.
You know that, right?
And that’s why, after all of this time, I still believe in love.
I believe in the mistakes and the missteps more than I believe in the butterflies.
And I guess THAT is what any of this means.
Learning to live past the butterflies.
Living right into all of the damn flaws.
So I keep the sketches.
Every single one of them.
I want to remember everything.
I want to remember how I got here.
And where I am to go.
So I draw a sketch of my heart.
And it’s as imperfect as it should be.
Just as I am as imperfect as I should be.
I check my mail and hang another postcard on my fridge.
It’s not perfect, but it gives me butterflies.

Let’s give this a go, yeah?
Your sketches remind me of everything.
Where I can still see you.
Discovering a new sense of touch in those last few desperate inches between desire and skin.
Between the ache and the connection.
Where I can still feel you.
Painting the permanence of your warm breath upon my neck.
Tattooing first the earth, then my nerves.
Both unforgettably branded by your beauty.
Both unforgettably grateful.
Where I can still taste you.
Each letter of your first name rolling off of my tongue as if I had just invented love simply so we had something to call all of these feelings.
Where I can still hear you.
Calling out my name in a way that I can’t walk and breathe through.
Not both at the same time.
Where time does nothing but exist for no other reason than for us to have this.
I want to remember everything.
But I still can’t draw.
So I sketch for you a few words hoping to render a positive reply when I ask you to be mine.

Let’s give this a go, yeah?

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