Monica Gabaldon

Jack Davison

Jack Davison

When Love Arrives

I knew exactly what love looked like…..in 7th grade. Even though I hadn’t met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom, I would’ve recognized him at first glance. Love wore a hemp necklace. Love played acoustic guitar and knew all my favorite Beatles songs. Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me. And I knew, I just must be searching the wrong classrooms, just must be checking the wrong hallways, he was there, I was sure of it.
But when love finally showed up, he wore the same clothes everyday for a week. Love hated the bus. Love didn’t know anything about The Beatles. Instead, every time I try to kiss love, our teeth got in the way. Love became the reason I lied to my parents. I’m going to……Valerie’s house?……. Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song.
And love grew, stretched like a trampoline. Love changed. Love disappeared, slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I thought I needed. Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone could see the trapdoor but me. Like a flat tire, there were other places I planned on going, but my plans didn’t matter. Love stayed away for years, and when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him. Love smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back, love came with freckles I didn’t recognize. New birthmarks, a softer voice. Now there were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books. Love had songs that reminded him of someone else, songs love didn’t like to listen to. So did I.
But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly. We found jokes that make us laugh. And now, love makes me fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies. But love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack. Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator. Love is messier now, not as simple. Love uses the words “boobs” in front of my parents. Love chews too loud. Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste. Love uses smiley faces in his text messages. And turns out, love shits!
But love also cries. And love will tell you you are beautiful and mean it, over and over again. “You are beautiful.” When you first wake up, “you are beautiful.” When you’ve just been crying, “you are beautiful.” When you don’t want to hear it, “you are beautiful.” When you don’t believe it, “you are beautiful.” When nobody else will tell you, “you are beautiful.” Love still thinks you are beautiful. But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget, when you need to hear it most, you are beautiful, do not forget this.
Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you can predict. Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep; you are I. California, Australia, wide awake. Maybe lo e is always in the wrong time zone. Maybe love is not ready for you. Maybe you are not ready for love. Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type. Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered. Maybe love is only there for a month. Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit. Maybe love stays… Maybe love can’t. Maybe love shouldn’t.
Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to, and love leaves exactly when love must. When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.” If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her. Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper, “Thank you for stopping by.”

No amount of physical beauty will ever be as valuable as a beautiful heart.
 Saad Tasleem (via reincarnatedangel)
pureasalily:

IG- pureasalily
moshturbate:

aarteries:

Sometimes you just want someone to drive with and show them your favorite songs.


I want this so bad

moshturbate:

aarteries:

Sometimes you just want someone to drive with and show them your favorite songs.

I want this so bad

jesdaniels:

bahliss:

Alexandra Agoston x Chris Colls

♡

jesdaniels:

bahliss:

Alexandra Agoston x Chris Colls

The best part of a relationship is getting to call the person, or lay down next to them, and tell them all the crazy things that happened to you all day long. In the end that’s what it’s about. It’s not about sex, it’s not about the money they give you, it’s not about how good looking they are, it’s about them listening to you talk for hours and hours and hours, about stupid shit that doesn’t matter.
Tegan Quin (via sleepychick)