Love is weird.
I'm used to talk about it quietly, to hide the big words and save them for the right moment. Even when I've already said them.
But he's not like that.
He comes in with a smile and no backpack and ready to announce how much love he has.
It's like a volcano. Hot and vibrant and sometimes suffocating but oh.
It feels nice and warm and comfy and God, so weird.
My head keeps reminding me of the lies — you're not good enough, you're a liar, you're a bad person, you don't deserve this — but that voice often dissappears under the touch of his hands. And I feel small and soft and loved.
And I see the world from another point of view. I don't really see the world, but I see him — his tenderness, his eyes, his laughter, his heart, the way he cares, his love — and that's quite the view.
