Tuesday, June 14, 2011

This warms my insides more than hot chocolate, steaming soup and chilli peppers combined.

I’d give you the time of day, any day, any way you want to hear it.


See, like right now it’s 12:02 on a Saturday night in the middle of August, and we’re laying on a beach, just you and me, waiting for someone to ask us to leave.

And now it’s 4:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. We’re eating frozen peas in rocking chairs on the porch of our old, white house. There goes our baby girl, down the driveway in the passenger seat of a green pickup, next to a boy she swears she loves. I love your wrinkles.

What time is it, you ask. It’s 8:28 on a Sunday morning. I’m leaving, for school. I don’t know when I’ll see you next, and all I know is to get to you is a 3 hour and 15 minute drive in a car I don’t have. On second thought, it’s not 8:28 on a Sunday morning.

In fact, I believe it’s 7:30 on a weeknight evening. The baby’s crying and you're watching football, I’m half asleep on your arm. I move to get the baby, but you hold me back and go yourself. I watch you walk, as exhausted as I am, from behind and realize I love being in this with you.

Now it’s 9:54 on a Wednesday night. Your curfew’s 10 and we have to make this quick. I’m not breathing, I can’t tell if you are. Here we go, deciding our futures on homemade theories and sparks. 

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