I’ve decided not to try to tell you the long backstory of the man who is now my boyfriend.
I’ve been trying to tell you all along really, and the fact that he’s now my man doesn’t mean the story of his life is really mine to tell. I think I’d rather tell you about the now stuff anyway, because now I’m allowed to stick my fingers in his hair, and write him sappy love letters. (Not at the same time, obviously.)
He lives in New York City, and I’m still here for awhile, so that sucks, but that’s only thing that sucks about us, everything else is magical and perfect and impossibly defiant of gravity.
We will be in love until we die and possibly longer, since my atoms love his atoms and atoms last virtually forever. I know I’m tempting fate to say so, so boldly, but I’m ok with that. Suck it fate. I’ve got my man.
We might look like everyone else, but I can’t escape the idea that we’re going to DO something together, something every one will feel. We might give birth to the AntiChrist, is all I’m saying.
Maybe not. Maybe we’re not magic, maybe this is just a wickedly strong version of a normal phenomenon, like storms becoming hurricanes. I don’t really care. I’m just so goddamn happy.