Footprints on the Moon

Undiscovered Galaxies

He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
– Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

I can’t tell you right now what it is exactly that feels different about this one. This time. This opportunity.

Fuck this is an intense kind of love.

I remember all you could do is laugh because the weight of the truth could be felt by both of our hearts. There was absolutely no denying this. You ran your fingers across the script on my left shoulder blade, and I traced mine down the ink of your arms. I figured it was from the days you played in that band of yours. You should sing for me.

But you wouldn’t. Not this night. This was all too new and all too incredible and much too surreal. We deserve this, honey. That’s what you kept telling me.

The way you kiss me. God, I have not been kissed like that in a long time. I had almost forgotten all about romance. The rosy cheeks and swollen lips and star spangled eyes. How our tongues are made of honey and our lovemaking can be found among hidden gemstones and orbiting planets. Undiscovered galaxies and unexplained footprints on the moon.

I am not exactly sure why you came into my life.

Your explanation: This is the universe’s way of saying, “have a burrito, fall in love.”

All I know is that you make me brave. You force me to be independent because I think deep down, you somehow know this is exactly what I need to work on for myself.

And my mother will never forget how I predicted your entire dinner order correctly the night you met my parents at that Italian restaurant in the city. Gnocchi. Minestrone Soup. And bread. All of the bread.

It stuns me that you felt this might be an unrequited love for you. That I wasn’t going to fall back. That somehow the man that you are was not enough to win my heart. But you are more. You are already becoming my favorite person. My favorite memories. My favorite thoughts for a future.

I will sit with you and let you call me your angel and we will roam the streets of Versailles in winter and fall into a bed that will warm us from the Parisian snow. I love your bucket list, babe. You flipped through those pages of all of the cities I want to visit, and you promised me we would easily get through this list within the next five years.

We’ve got each other. And that is a hell of a lot. You should know, or maybe you shouldn’t just yet, that I would never trade all of those cityscapes and glamorous lights for the singular moment we have when you are playing with strands of my chocolate hair and I am trying to find your tickle spots.

Freckles of love, constellations of adoration. You are a marigold blossom in this world of winter and barren souls craving some sort of real love. This may be surreal, but it is fucking magical. Every speck and sparkle. In the wealth of your arms, I am heavy with happiness. This is a liberating kind of love. Because wild hearts can’t be broken, and I know yours will run free with mine. So fast we will fly. Sprout wings that leave behind closets of heartache and old shelves lined with the organs of pseudo-soulmates. Write stories of happy times with no happy endings because I would hate for this to ever end. And when people talk about us, I will tell them we are off discovering galaxies and leaving footprints on the moon.

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