maybe there will be untold horrors - there already are. maybe it is foolish to make tiny poems when there are already whole libraries of better writers and smarter scholars. maybe it is insipid to love flowers when there are more beautiful and thoughtful vistas and visions. maybe, maybe.
but i am holding your hand, and you smell like the cupcakes we have been baking, and this is somehow new, isn’t it, the way energy is reconstituted into magic around you. there is a nowhere land you take me to, somehow; a place where a little kindness is big enough to fill the lungs of peace, a place where hope actually knows her name. we will make the bed and sing along to bad music and the way you laugh will be enough. and i am melting for you, stunned suddenly - oh, oh! the answer had always been love.
