Hickies

You are worth every shouted conversation at a bar, every set up, every bad date.  You are worth every awkward make out session that led to teeth clicking together and turtlenecks the next day.  Everything was practice, everything was preparation, so that I could meet you, talk naturally, and kiss you without leaving a wound.

Anon.

 

Stara33 @ Flickr

Sweet Enough

You’re not too sweet.  People who are too sweet are like drinks that are too sweet—they’re great in the moment, but betray you in the morning.  You’re never a headache, never a regret.  You don’t hide yourself behind sugar and syrup.  I always get you, straight up (sometimes with a twist).      

You’re the perfect mix.

-Anon.

Poor Actor

I’ve realized, recently, how much I do love you. And as much as I try to act cool, not show it, let’s face the facts: you’re not stupid, and I’ve never been too good an actress. I know you know. And I love you even more for not doing anything to make me stop.

I’ve fallen in love with you for a reason. Thank you for letting me. 

-Anon.

Rrrrred @ Flickr.com

Back Together

I love the security you provide.  You’re always there for me, morning to night.  Lately though, things have been tough.  It could be all this running around, not making enough time for you, for us.  Maybe I’ve been leaving too much of the heavy lifting in this relationship up on you.  Maybe we’re just getting older, and this is the way it’s going to be from now on. 

I want you to know that, however bad it gets, I still love you.  You’re not nearly as much of a pain as our neck.

-Anon.

 

Evil Erin @ Flickr

Red Flags

I see you in the mall, and you’re lovely.  For a moment, I fantasize about our life together.  Yet the sleuth that lives in my brain abruptly cuts off the daydream.  We could never be together.  I don’t resemble the Abercrombie model on your bag—neither the one with the popped collar nor the one without a shirt whose abs seem to begin at his nipples.  A woman whose nails and hair demand this much attention could never go camping.  Even if I built a time machine and slapped the books out of the hands of my younger self, substituting them for a carefully orchestrated work out regiment and stock tips, I’m not sure I could ever really understand you—Uggs and a skirt just seem impractical in any weather.  

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but if Fabio is on it, you know it’s not Moby Dick.

-Anon.

 

Malingering @ flickr