C'est l'amour

It’s 10am in the morning and I can hear that bird singing from somewhere in the back garden. The one that sounds so churpy. The one that takes me back to Sunday mornings with toast and porridge and my dad and Walderseestrasse. At an hour in the morning when the sun was still wiping sand out of its eyes and its light was a soft blueish citron yellow. My dad would be making boiled eggs or porridge or whatever came to his mind and my feet would be dangling from the enormous grown-up kitchen chair. And I couldn’t wait to get on my pink little bike because I knew we were going to cycle through the woods and go to the zoo.

He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking about you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect for more than he can give. Don’t analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you.

You, dear, make me whole, sadly I know that I will never call you mine.