Just a personal blog with personal feelings. Brooke 17 NY
(via backshelfpoet)
When I think about you, I think of us, running a bed and breakfast together on a far-off planet. Hear me out. It is a stone cottage perched on a seaside cliff, right out of the colouring book from when you were small enough that skinned knees only existed outside ourselves.
Every morning, you stoke the fire because my fingers are clumsy as newborn kittens around you. I watch you tend the kindling with my heart already warm.
In the afternoons, we bake bread and pies together. Spooning sugar into each other’s mouths to kiss out of. If we finish early, we take a picnic basket out and unfold ourselves in the sunshine. Your dark head tipped at the knoll of my knee, telling me a story about a lighthouse. I already know this story. I listen anyway.
On the way back home you fill my pockets with wildflowers, and then my hand with yours. Sometimes it rains and we dash to shelter with mud leaping for our knees, shrieking like the fresh split of ripe fruit. Sometimes we don’t make it to the house. You open me up against a tree and we ignite while it pours.
Whether or not it rains we always end up like this: with you inside me, trembling like dandelions in the windowsill. Everything I told you about love, you whisper, was just a story I made up. My love, we invented each other. That means this story, this dream, is real. And every night, while the moon slivers, only the crisp sea air watches us tell it, over and over again.
