The House

there are people you like, and then people you love. people you love where you just want them to be happy, whether you're in the picture or not; as long as you're by their side, even if it's not your fingers entwined with theirs. their happiness is a part of your happiness. you get lonely sometimes, sure, but as long as you are able to be by their side, you can make due with what you have and be content with it.

i am not as well acquainted with this love. i have spent many months, days, weeks, minutes, seconds with people that fall into a mere liking; a hollow shell of which love found too lacking to take residence in. and with all of these people, it has ended the same way: i sense the illusion i have created, open my eyes and begin to backtrack. make like a thief and run off and act selfish before i take more than i can carry.

i built the house and moved in, but i built the house sloppy and left the door hanging off it's hinges.

so when the real thing comes full bloom, in all it's near-indescribable glory, it comes full force, sweeping over me like that one lone warm wisp of wind on a winter day. i hold onto it more than anything else and handle it with delicacy not seen by anyone, or anything, else in my world. it becomes almost like mental warfare, as i fight myself on decisions, and the importance of words and saying them or typing them or spelling them out in the most meaningful of ways, and expressing myself in a way that settles in that perfect center between trying too hard and trying too little, and the possibilities of outcomes, and the perfect way to spend time with you because i believe you deserve nothing but the best and anything less isn't worth the effort or time you could give, and everything fragile and frightening and exciting and perfect about progress and the things that lure it into existance, and letting myself fall vulnerable and open and not being afraid to show that i am weak, that i am not perfect, that i admit to my mistakes, my human error, and not being afraid to show you who i am and who i want to be and what i want to be to you and all the hidden, quirky things in me that nobody else has the shovel to dig out of me or the beautiful eyes to see.

i want to build a house that stands sturdy on it's foundation, with colours that treat the eye much like how trees do as they come to life again after winter's terrorism, with furnishings perfect, inviting and comfortable, and a bed that refuses to let me dream of wicked things. i want to find a comfort in this house, and the door that locks shut, safe and sound.