Rose

It's rather humbling the things a person thinks about in the quiet...

These feelings and emotions, the poetry and words pulled from my soul are yours and yours alone. You keep me grounded when I tend to walk around with my head in the clouds. I get the view that is the best of both worlds. You say everything beautiful and perfect in one sentence that takes me twenty-three and a half to write. I don't have to agree with you to understand your perspective, that is where leaps of faith and jars of fireflies come in. There's going to be bad days, worse than that. There's going to be more goodbye days. Take my hand anyway and jump. We'll either break the jars and fly away, or dive in deep and swim between stars and shipwrecks. Has anyone ever offered you an adventure so sweet?

I have some growing up to do, still. I always will. But I can't imagine a better person to grow up with without growing up at all, than you. I'm here for a reason, even if that reason is only one: to make this adventure silly and dumb and emotional and one roller coaster ride away from disaster - with you. I love that! I'm all in.

I don't make the difference in this world that you do already. There are hurts too raw. My past a tangled web of abuse, neglect, scars and wounds that I wage war against every day. I'm constantly unraveling the thorns that still sting and bleed, because I believe, there is wondrous beauty underneath. That is why a rose is perfect, to truly appreciate the delicate balance and elegant creation of the flower, you must first strip away the thorns. That's what you spent hours, days, weeks, months doing with me. You didn't mind the thorns this woman came with. Once upon a time, you saw the flower bloom and unfold petal by petal, not so ravaged and not so incomplete. All that had been missing, was you.

Your middle name is Rose, not just because it's a family name, but because you are mine. I chose your middle name so I would never forget the way you saved me. I used to think we choose our stories, but that isn't true at all. 

How do you know when a story is real? 

The story chooses you.