Wednesday, June 21, 2017

I forgot to give this one a title

She's tall. Around 5'10". Still, her feet swing from the dining room table chair like a kid's, toes barely touching the ground, head on the table as she stares at her screen. She's adorable. Innocent in her way.

I was just informed by the same girl that I am going to see John Moreland, then Lydia Lovelace.

She always brings me amazing gifts, that one.

I'll never live long enough to show her what she means to me. I'll never be that man I want to be for her. When you have someone like her you never actually arrive at being good enough. You might achieve some level of success at whatever, you might even feel like you're good at loving her.

But with a woman like her you always want to be better. Better at loving her. Better at listening. Better at cooking a meal for her. Hell, better at remembering to make her damn coffee in the morning when she sleeps in.

Because she'll expect you to love yourself. She understands that if you don't, if you don't tend to yourself and care for you you won't be any good to her.

I dunno. I'm just keep looking over at her this morning, watching her do nothing more than just be her and it melts me.

The other day we were standing on the back of the actual stage at the Grand Ole Opry while Wanda Jackson sang. We knew we were witnessing something important from a vantage point very few people ever get.

I thought, this is fucking cool.

I looked at her, engrossed in the moment and thought, this is my person and there is not another human being I would rather be sharing this moment with. 

I will never be done becoming whatever the fuck it is I am meant to be. And, frankly, I don't ever want to be done.

Titty sprinkles!

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