It allows you to sneak. I don't like sneaking. I'm not a true sneak at heart (apart from sneaking into the refrigerator in half light). Honestly. I have become weak.
I nearly lost the faith this morning.
It balanced precariously on the window ledge- I managed to get it to come in, after soft coos and biscuit offerings. It told me that if I make hot chocolate today in the white jug, with actual chunks of 70% dark chocolate, it might reconsider coming back to me.
How could I say no?
Faith jumped back in and snuggled against the biscuit tin. (I don't actually have a biscuit tin, so this is a downright lie...see...LYING! What next? Stalking? Probably).
So, deep breaths and all, I'm ok. But I *have* decided not to get mixed up in men for some time. They seem to make me all...weird.
I get breathless and heady, and then I can't eat, and for WHAT exactly? Because you met someone who ticked some boxes, had amazing eyes, poured you tea like Mother and used the phrase whilst doing it and
kissed
you
like some
passionate
lunatic.
Exactly. Nothing to get excited about.
Who cares if the warmth of his smile could have kept you warm...probably-always.
Nah.
Big deal.
Nothing to shout about.
Meet me at Cafe Lalo.
How sick can I get.
I just want to live in a film. Happy endings, over the rainbow, all that gloriously slushy jazz.
Park corners, benches, picnics *in the snow*.
Hot chocolate in flasks and being there for someone- till death do us part
with a constant Joni Mitchell soundtrack playing in the background,
perpetually perfect lighting, candles, twinkle lights, books by beds and your feet against mine
as we fall asleep, your hand tucked over my hip and my back against your belly.
I have been lucky enough in my lifetime to experience Love in all it's many (many) resplendent ways-
I just hope
so badly
I come across a day
when it stays
Today, I am starting afresh.
Out with last week
and in with...
answers on a postcard
...please?
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