7/11 <3

This November marks three years since I texted you and asked, “What are you doing tonight?” You said, “Waiting for you,” and we’ve never had to wait for each other since—except when it’s time to go and you’re sitting on the couch, not dressed yet, screaming, “Am I ready?! I’ve BEEN ready for 17 hours."

You’re insane and hilarious—the only person who’s ever held my attention long enough to win me for life. You’re the only person I’ve ever killed my ego with. 

Sometimes you’re so dramatic, all I can do is laugh. And then I watch your dramatic face crinkle into a smile more powerful than the Sun could ever dream of being, and I know that I am home. My home has been out there, beyond me—older and wiser and in Northern California, of all places. 

I fled Orange County in 2018 because I knew in my gut it wasn’t home. And my gut was right, because when I found myself back here five years later, it was clear that No Place was ever home. It was a person. A who. It was you.

I’ve kissed frogs and worked at crappy jobs and pinched at my body, scratched it and burned it and cut it until it bled. Can you believe that? I hardly can, because now I’ve been convinced that I’m perfect—that the only thing my body deserves is your love, your lips, your touch. To hate myself is to hate you. To hurt myself is to hurt you. It’s the reason I learned how to regard myself with tenderness. You’re the reason I learned how to regard myself with tenderness. 

We learn by doing, and I love you every day. I love you through every moment; I love every version of you. It makes me want to help you love me.

Does that make sense? Maybe. As long as it makes sense to you, and I know it does. It’s why I make it a point to say “Happy 11th” every month. I’ll take any excuse to remind you of my sacred vow.

“You know I love you.” Yes. I also know how good it feels to hear it every day.