of the 29th

Books.

Tissues.

Blankets.

Canvas.

Promises on paper.



730 days.

104 weeks.

2 years.

Cotton.



I know that every day is a gamble. I know that the world isn't made for such things. That it's cruel and hard. That our lives have connected at this point, at this time, through a series of unrelated events. That kismet has smiled on us. That synchronicity has paused for us.

I know the planets still spin on as always. That there is still great sadness. Still war and trauma and hopelessness in the air. That tears are shed, and will continue to be.

I know there is nothing perfect in this world. Including us.

Each day is merely a page of a calendar whispering through the air to the floor. The small ticking of the clock echoing it's repeated call.

That regardless of our actions, our words, our promises - the sun will set. It will rise again after night. Untouched by our hopes and dreams.


I also know that never before has my heart been so full. Never before have my dreams seemed so close.

I wake every morning with hope in my heart for the next moment. I fall to sleep at peace. The warmth next to me is ever so much more than another warm body.

Every day we wake up and choose each other. And in a world where magic is thin, where so much goes wrong - I see that choice we make each moment we're together (and apart) as a small miracle.

I don't know about the rest of the world. I don't know what comes after. I know I have always believed in the magic of this world. In the possiblity that dreams are real. That hope is everlasting and inpenetrable.



And I know he has made all of that as real as anything else in my world.

my beloved


mi cielo


mo chuisle


my very heart