I believe that if there is a chance at happiness—true and genuine happiness, risks are worth taking. I believe that impossibilities are only so because people don’t take risks to make them possibilities. Maybe it isn’t the impossibility that’s impossible. Maybe it’s the impossible lack of faith in oneself that makes it an impossibility.
You are terrifying and beautiful and strange and something I’m sure not everyone knows how to
Love. Not wholly, anyway. Not for all your prices and parts. Not for all that makes you darky dark.
Do you know how strange it is to dream of you when I am wide awake? Hemingway said, “Darling, you will be good to me, won’t you? Because we’re going to have a strange life.” Strange. It’s all so delightfully strange.
When I told you that it was your fault for making me fall in love with you, that was a lie.
It wasn’t falling at all. You—your love, the way you treat me, the way you talk to me, the way you allow me to be part of you life—that’s not falling at all. That’s flying. You didn’t make me fall. You gave me wings.
A far better writer than I spoke my truths in you long before I knew they existed: in those moments when you feel alone and afraid to trust love, remember that I have crossed a great ocean of loneliness to find you. Mine is not a fair-weather heart. It was built to outlast storms.
If anyone has ever loved you with all the power of their soul for an entire lifetime, they still didn’t love you as much as I do in a single day.
The strange things about you that you think I will not like, the darkness, the brooding, the Lucifer, the deep set inferno in your eyes, those are the things that have drawn me to you. You’ve never been darkness to me. You’ve always been a flame. I’ve always merely been the Acherontia moth. Drawn to you naturally. Instinctively. Because it is how it is meant to be.