Unveil

a month of small reasons → unveil.day

the best thing i heard all week

today someone at the office said "worrying is the worst way to use your imagination"

make something only they could open → unveil.day

she told me her favorite flower once

she told me her favorite flower once. once. in a random conversation on a wednesday night.

i showed up with them three months later.

31 doors, every one about them → unveil.day

the calendar way of saying everything → unveil.day

a month of small reasons → unveil.day

everyone has an opinion about us

everyone has an opinion about us. too fast. too much. too soon.

they can keep their careful little lives. i'll take the one that terrifies me, because it's the only one with you in it.

one gift, opened a little each day → unveil.day

people ask how we do the distance

people ask how we handle the distance like it's a sad thing.

they don't see the part where i fall asleep to the sound of you breathing through a phone, eight time zones away.

one gift, opened a little each day → unveil.day

i thought love was something you survived

i spent years thinking love was something you survive, not something that makes you safer.

then you fell asleep on my chest mid-sentence, trusting me with the most defenseless version of you, and something that had been clenched in me for thirty years finally let go.

love them slowly, day by day → unveil.day

build a calendar by hand → unveil.day

the calendar way of saying everything → unveil.day

i used to call the wrong thing love

it's not the racing heart. it's not the three days of silence that make one text back feel like oxygen. it's not the wondering where you stand.

i used to call that love because it was the only kind i'd ever been handed.

love them slowly, day by day → unveil.day

the text i keep deleting

i've typed it out maybe forty times. the message where i finally say it right.

that i was scared, not cold. that i pushed you away because i was certain you'd leave first, and i wanted to lose on my own terms.

one gift, opened a little each day → unveil.day

i want the unglamorous decades

i want the unglamorous decades with you. the matching reading glasses we'll lose around the house. the same argument about the thermostat for forty years. the way you'll still reach for my hand crossing a parking lot at eighty, out of a habit your body never unlearned.

a countdown calendar for someone you love → unveil.day

he drove ninety minutes through a storm

We'd been dating four months when my grandfather died. I called to cancel, swearing I was fine and needed to be alone.

An hour later, a knock. He'd driven ninety minutes through a storm with groceries and my favorite soup from two towns over.

He didn't try to fix it. He didn't say the right things. He just cooked, sat on the kitchen floor with me, and let me cry into his shoulder until I fell asleep.

one gift, opened a little each day → unveil.day

31 doors, every one about them → unveil.day

for the person you'd write 31 letters to → unveil.day

the sentence that ended our fight

i got mad at my boyfriend today.

a month of small reasons → unveil.day