Notes

Love.
Fucking love.
Love feels like tingles and sunrays.
It’s a tightness in my chest and an extra beat of my heart. Love is completeness—sappiness. Better
than the best chocolate ever.
Love gives me tickle-chills and super high, high, high smiles. It keeps me from sleeping. It makes it
hard to breathe, blink, care.
Love is indescribable, cumbersome, silly-selfish, consuming, life-changing, goose bump-giving,
knowing-all-the-words-to-the-song exciting, I-can’t-think-straight-without-him overwhelming, sighswooning,
laugh-out-loud-for-no-reason anxious.
It’s fun and always near.
It’s a rule-causing, jealousy-inducing, leg-kicking, dream-giving, wonderful, filling, shaketrembling,
wonder-where-you-are-always obsessive, necessary, requiring, joyful flow.
Our love is secret-keeping, late-night sneaking, gift-giving, cream-soda loving, vanilla, trouble,
and princess-pie-dusty incomparable.
His love is locked around my bones.
His love is forever-never-leaving.

Love is draining

Love turns a blind eye.

Love is relentless

Love is easy laughter and swift-beating hearts.

You’re my safe spot.

Love is strong

I’m fucked, princess. You have me so fucked-up

Love is unending.

He kisses me all night.
He kisses me until the alarm goes off.
Then he kisses me hello before I leave his room.
Because love is never saying goodbye.


She’s my softer side, and I’m her motherfucking monster.

Love is mean.

Love fucking hurts.

Love is corrupt.
Love is lying.
Love is hard work. It’s suffocating and using. It’s head-fucking and soul-ruining. It’s apprehensive
and back-stabbing, passionate and chilling. It’s smile-giving, but neck-breaking. It’s not worth it, but
it’s worth it. It’s everything I thought it was, and everything I know it’s not.
Love is always supposed to understand, but love is at my house, ignoring my unease.
Love is supposed to be effortless.
Love is supposed to be loyal.
But love is love’s traitor.

I slip in near her and kiss her neck. I kiss her lips. I kiss her hair. I kiss her fingers. I kiss her wrist
and the inside of her elbow.
“Bliss, wake up.” I drag the blankets away and climb over her. She’s sleepy-warm and smells like
she should: me.

Love is fighting a losing battle.

Love is reassuring.

Love is brave.

Love is perfect.

Everything I see, every conversation I hear, every song I start to sing along to reminds me of the
person I think most about. Like the universe is trying to tell me something, the world and all my
thoughts constantly circle back to him.

Love for him
doesn’t listen to logic, practicality, or consequence.

Alone between sheets that smell illicitly sweet but don’t quite feel like home without him

My innocence isn’t a question

Lost in loving