A Place to Write

Roses.

1 month of so much belly-shaking laughter.  Of so many hours spent tumbling between sheets and limbs, kissing elbows and collar bones and belly buttons.

Take care, don’t let go of those handlebars.  Can’t get hurt again.

Bottles of wine clank in a pile of their empty peers. Sloppy kisses, slow kisses, giggly kisses, biting kisses.

He holds me closer every day.

And then my family. It breaks. Into a billion pieces. And I don’t want him to get cut by the shards so I try my best to sweep it under the rug before he notices.

The moon is rising and his arms bring me in closer.  Wet softness on my shoulder. I feel it starting, from the bottom of my stomach, rising faster until I barely catch it in my throat. I have to leave. I have to get away. H can’t see this part of me yet. I’m strong. Independent. No on likes a damaged girl. No one buys the broken china doll.

I rush out, grab my shoes. “I have to go.” He comes after me, takes my hand. “But I don’t want you to go.”

Those words ring in my ears for the next two days.

He tells me he thinks he might love me someday.

He describes Oregon as if its a members only club. A place everyone wants to go. Everyone wants to get in to Oregon. He grew up there. He wants to return there.

He wants me fall in love with Oregon.

We map out a road trip. Our fingers trace lines on laminated paper.

I feel inspired when I’m with him. I’ve started taking pictures again. I’ve started looking around me in search of perfect images. I want to learn another language. I want to travel more. I want to be better.

Not for him. For me. But he inspires me to find new things I want to learn.

I’m falling so quickly.

And it feels right.