ღ Dolluette’s Journal ღ

Dolluettes🪶

To be loved is to be known, not only for the beautiful parts of you but the sad-flawed pieces as well

It’s winter time for obvious reasons one can tell simply from the temperature changes—how the weather invites a chill and downpour into different parts and places that I stumble into.

Maybe, love is a sense of calmness? When you find that special someone that shuts down your nervous system in a way that says, “you’re safe here”

Is love considered a spectrum, when two people come together in ways that makes our sense of gravity questionable? If so, does one float above the clouds and the other tries to find a route that carries them easily into the air {maybe, they take hold of a hot air balloon until they’ve reached their lover.} OR maybe, it's not that simple as we'd like to believe for the spectrum travels between "I'll love you until the sunlight beams through the curtains of the window" to "I rather merge my soul with yours completely intertwined for an eternity"

How does a poet write about love so positively without mentioning the parts that made them question their existence? When it’s gut-wrenching and often profound without fail, perhaps the poet would choose to compare the two as no other than blissfulness and an experiment of misery “I’d hand you a scalpel, praying to the heavens that you’d be careful and not cut my artery—poking around as you discover the fragility of each part of me that finds your love fulfilling. In hopes of not choking on my own blood, for I’ve tasted it more than I can count; yet I know of paper cuts and gunshot wounds that leaves both life and death at the scenes. Questioning the difference between insanity and sanity, wondering if I’ve gone mad with the idea of you.”

In moments of doubt, I’ve prayed for a love that remains pure even when our minds are the impurest things about us—wondering what your mouth feels like on every part of my body.

I wasn't expecting to fall for you, although the simplest things carry me away with ease. Could it be that I never truly understood love until I met you? It doesn't seem like lust engulfs us, it's not purely sexual for we do exchange our "I miss yous" and "I adore yous" intensely. {I'm scared that you'll see the real me} that you'll hold me with caution at first but become careless as If you didn't intend to pursue this, us—me. {I want you, for eternity} hopelessly in love with you, knowing your love has touched me in a way that's indescribably perfect.

It's strange being "in love"—how is it your soul captivated me and you never once asked to see my bare skin. You admire my body as is fully clothed— not pleading to dissect me from the inside-out, your hands and mouth haven't met my flesh with certainty believing that's all I am.

I've seen love both conditional and unconditional, It's often hidden described as quiet but never as obsession. Then there's transactional love that disguises itself as unconditional but only consumes you and doesn't allow you to get close enough to consume them. Me, I am unconditional love always wearing my heart on display but captured by careless hands. It's unconditional without you having to ask for it— never will it be conditional.

Love isn't Love without the sense of betrayal, but when it comes to love I'd do anything for you. Even if that meant wreaking havoc in a world that was born to hurt us.

To the one I'll marry one day,

Can I tell you a secret, without fears rising to the surface? I want to be loved and witness it in its purest form. I want to feel its touch at dusk when the lights are dimmed, after we've spent lost hours admiring each other's bodies throughout the night. Your fingers interlacing with mine and in a faint whisper, you say "I fucking love you," letting a kiss take place as a moment of passion so profound it submerges me, suffocating me with a love where lust has no form. While dusk turns into dawn, your fingers untwine from mine only for a little bit until we find each other in the kitchen; the palm of our hands touching and fingers interlacing once more as you twirl me around, lowering me down softly onto the chair. Watching you pour the coffee into our mugs, leaving a kiss on my forehead.