11.11

all i want to do is write about love. write the movie of my life. live until i can’t breathe because i can’t stop telling you about all the amazing little things that happened to me, today. until i’m blue in the face.

i want you to tell me i’m kicking ass, breaking records, living way beyond your expectations of me. and you love it. and you love me. and you can’t imagine life without loving me forever.

you – my imagination, the unconscious reassurance that i don’t actually need, but crave for, unbelievably so – the affirmation and the recognition and the appreciation of a life lived oh so well, it hurts. it hurts so much.

let my heart ache; my eyes throb; my ears ring; my mouth water; my nostrils burn; and my fingertips swell. with tiredness. pure exhaustion. life lived to the absolute extreme. giving so much. expecting nothing but love. because, really, that’s all there is. that’s all there should be.

all i want to do is write about the loves of my life. the moments that leave my eyes stinging and my skin tingling and my mouth widening with a smile and a thought of who can i tell, right now in this moment?  

who will appreciate the most insignificant, the most irrelevant, the most ridiculous story? the story that i desperately want to share.

magical. serene. all encompassing, overwhelming and uncontrollable.

i want to write about love, for as long as i live. 

thoughts?

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