That's Us.

We're them. We're everything we like about them and not anything we don't.

We're the quirky and kind, the handsome and pretty, the sarcastic comment and embarrassed giggle.

I found myself doing this constantly. Finding couples I loved and thinking "we're them." In a million ways. His personalized commentary; her sigh of his name. Her empassioned torrents; his patient and supportive hand on her knee. I would listen to songs and think - "us." I would horde them in fact, in playlist after playlist. Listening to them repeatedly. "Us." "He and I." "We."

It was like I needed comfirmation that this was real. That it wouldn't go away, that it wasn't made up. Because it was exactly what I would make up, if I could. It was all too perfect in a way. Maybe not perfect - but real. Too tangible. Solid. Beautiful in that way imperfect things are. In the way worn wood on a banister feels like coming home. I was searching for evidence that this was what I thought it was. What it could be. What I hoped for it to be.

And then I realized the evidence wasn't coming. Because it *was* real. Because it was he and I, and no one else. And we are, yes, a million lyrics of a million songs. And slight reflections of those we love most, cracked mirrored images of what I would find in books and papers. But we're so much more. He is so much more.

And I realized, we're writing those songs, we're creating those images. And I no longer need confirmation it's real, or permanent. Because I know it. I know it in a way I've never known anything in my life. And in itself that is scary and wonderful and amazing.

But I still listen to those songs on repeat, I still glance twice at those couples. I guess it's my way of runing my hand over the bannister, feeling that nostalgic overwhelming reminisce again and again.

I'm home. I'm home. I'm home.