Ironic, no?
The day I decide I'll start a journal and find a site with prompts to help me through happens to be the day they ask me to speak of "love." Its as if I can't get enough of gushing and cooing like a school girl over her first crush. He does give me those topsy-turvy, all over, inside-out, butterflies.
My most recent myspace posts have been dedicated and full of sweet nothings ; whispers of a burning desire. Here? I think I'll speak in a darker tone.
Love. Frighteningly strong. Fearfully deceptive. Perhaps he'll love me now in my youth when my eyes still sparkle and my breasts are still relatively perky, when I can still maintain soft pale skin without botox and freaky serums. But what happens when I've popped out a handful of his progeny and I'm not so pleasurble to be in anymore, my hair starts going grey - oh so stuborn grey, and I've grown ... boring? People keep warning me of the "honeymoon stage" where love seems to blossom but soon flickers and dies. What if his love is only infatuation and soon after he's wisked me away into a new home he decides I'm not worth the effort? Tt said (and only because I'm frightened of loss do I even listen) that men often profess strong love when the prospect of a warm body is near ... and he'll love me only as long as the excitment lasts.
What if I stop being exciting!?
I want to spend my life with this man. With his soft, warm eyes. With his sweet smile. A counterpart in him, I see. I love him. I love everything from the dorky way he smiles to the way his eyebrows furrow in worry when I say I've a headache. The way he kisses me. The way he holds my hand for no reason other then to hold my hand.
Could this sweet, dedicated man be a momentary comfort? Could my dreams of a fufilling life and a lasting love be only that? A dream?
I pray to the Gods and the Godesses that he'll love me always, as I love him. For without him I fear I'd crumble.
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