Published June 12, 2014 by April Fox

Yesterday, I came across another blog I’d started then abandoned. It’s only a couple years old, and I have no idea why I gave it up and started this one. They may even have overlapped, I’m not sure, I haven’t looked. Anyway, I thought I’d move some stuff over from there to here. Here’s the last entry from that blog, from January 2012.

Living with someone you love is hard. Living with someone you absolutely adore might be especially hard. In a bad relationship, you know what to expect. You can numb yourself, turn to apathy like liquor to drown the things that hurt. In a good relationship, you are forced, unexpected, to see the little bits of your love-and they’re there in all of us, turn off your romantic eyes and you’ll see it-that make him human.

Human-ness in someone you love can be hard to take sometimes.

There is this person out there, in here, wrapped in your blankets, cold feet pressed against your own, miles away sending digital hearts to a little glass screen, using your soap and your toothpaste and dirtying up your dishes and stopping for milk on the way home, and something about him is simply right.

Things are very rarely always right, all the time.

Accepting that tastes like aspartame.

It’s when you can take a breath after screaming rage, silent in your head, angry, furious that this perfect creature isn’t, and in that breath is the knowledge that yes-
this is perfect-that you know.

And fuck, I am not stuck here. I am not bound by faith or circumstance or some archaic rule book to settle into the space between your arms at night. Necessity is not the driving factor here, but choice. And in that first quivering breath after fear creeps in and tells you to run is the absolute truth: the worst of this is better than the best of anything else.

We are stitched together, patchwork hearts, magnets, telepathic, take your pick.

I could take your pieces
toss them blindly from the windows
mad and happy
littering the road
things I
shouldn’t really need

I lost my words.

Together they are something
I’d call magic
if I wasn’t such a
cynical old fuck

Together they are bound into this thing that I can
not define cannot
explain cannot
for a fraction of a second
to imagine life

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