_margot_

Twenty five cuts to your skin. Twenty six years of pain. I found you lying there with an embarrassed grin and a sadness that could make me cry across the land.

So I came to you, and came for you. Over amber waves, and the things of nightmares and dreams. I came for you. Slept in a huge bed where we needed but room for one.

I regret nothing. It gets hard when the newness runs out and the day to day and the routine take over. We lose sight of the story. The story is ours.

So we build our blanket fort and we camp outside our minds. Catching up with the things we lost along the way, often too busy dwelling in what and who we aren't and never lingering in the moments of who we are.