On Hedge Row

The wind was rusty tonight as I walked behind you both.

I loved the way you talked

of planting tulip bulbs in the fall,

and the garden that would have to wait ten more years.

For a moment, in the bluster of that Georgia wind

I wondered if this is what I would one day want

or if I wanted it already:

Ten more years

and tulips every fall.

Rabbit

(via Style Rookie).

I was wearing white

Sitting with you on the front porch steps.

I thought life could never be more perfect.

Drinking spring water out of a mason jar

Lazying about, tying flowers into your brown hair.

We Never Change, Do We?

(via Try a Fashion Blog).

Clean Sheets

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing."

Lewis called it grief. He called it fear too. "The fluttering in the stomach, the restlessness, the yawning." Some would call it love.

I feel this way with you.

Not isolated fear,

Not lonely grief,

Not even the singular beauty of love.

All three.

All at once.

This is the common experience.

Our grief and love and fear,

all together in the dry mouth of humanity.

A Song

Premonitions

(Natalie. via Try a Fashion Blog).

Every night I shake awake with the same fear:

Soon you will realize that I am not nearly as interesting as you supposed.

Every morning I flutter up with the same warning to whisper:

"You won't love me for long."