You and he have entered the era of washing machines. This is the steady heartbeat. This is the synchronized breathing. This is sleepy summer afternoons where soft silence beads between you. You are familiar, you are touching only knuckles or ankles or elbows but still always somehow connected. You are looks passed to one another when newer couples fall in love in front of you, you are certainty in a changing world. You are linked hands and walks in the park discussing what sort of dog breed you’d be if you had been born as one. You are resting your head on his lap while he finishes his book and he is drawing patterns on your spine while you finally get around to answering your email. You are television marathons and eating more ice cream than either of you are terribly proud of. This is conversation less about secrets and more about passing the salt, this is comfort.

You are sitting on a dryer and reading your English essay aloud, he is sorting laundry. You are making breakfast and he is falling asleep into his coffee. You agree to clean the kitchen if he will wash the dishes. He makes you pasta and you sit on the counter, strumming a guitar slowly. You play Wonderwall as a joke and he pretends to find it funny. He is the only one you feel safe in front of. You two are comfortably odd, letting out the scraps of your personality too weird for public but just weird enough for each other. You lick his jaw, he bites your collarbone, you both laugh and kiss and breathe in the taste of the other person’s amusement. You are not afraid to make a mistake. He loves you anyway.

When the two of you fight, it is full of fire, full of pent-up, full of things you regret as soon as they crawl out of your mouth. But when the two of you fight, there is still a current below it: he loves me and I love him. This is certain. You fight, but you make up when the steam has cleared, you both apologize, you both forgive. You hug tight and sigh and feel good in the warmth that he gives.

And when he kisses you, maybe it is not always the fevered passion of the first one, but it is always with love. Having him is closing your eyes and falling and knowing he will catch you. Having him is one part nights with bite marks and bruises and out of breath and one part smiling when he pulls you closer to him in his sleep and waking up from darkness to gentle kisses if he notices you’re nightmaring.

It is simple. It is uncomplicated. It is not fancy or forced or even extremely poetic. It is plastic forks and being in your underwear and arguing about which radio station and having someone to take to parties, it is dumb gifts and changing lightbulbs and grocery trips

and good lord, it is absolutely
perfect.

Soft dies the light (part four) /// r.i.d (via ohfairies)

Started crying halfway through this

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