I'm positive that you're still missing the point.
Your house is just over the hill and I keep gasping for breath like this is the first time I've ever been alone with you and my skin hasn't memorized the loops and whirls that your fingerprints make against the indents of my hipbones. Sometimes, I act like I've never met you before because I'm afraid of losing the excitement of falling in love. I once heard that everyone is just looking for the next big thing someone brighter and better than me. You've already started calling me "annie," because you got bored with my real name. I wonder if I should be scared. I wonder if I should be worried. I wonder why all my clothes still smell like you and why I'm counting off the minutes until I can see your face again. It's gotten impossible to know whether I'm telling this story backwards or forwards. We're all in the wrong order.
Every time I sit down to tell you my history, I realize that I'm always talking about things that didn't happen. Or details that I've been waiting to happen. I'm telling you about a boy who broke my heart just so he could put it together and break it again. And then I'm telling you about you and realizing that you're exactly what I want. I'm not comfortable in my own skin, but I'm comfortable in your arms. I'm starting to wonder if it's the same thing. Every day is a step away from something that I thought I'd have forever, but it's also a bit closer to something that's even better.
You wanted to die before I met you and sometimes, I wish I could go back in time just to save you. Sometimes, when we're lying in bed, I have to keep turning my head to make sure you're there since I'm still so terrified that you'll disappear. You're not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere without you. I keep making promises and I used to be afraid I couldn't keep them, but it's easier here with you. It's effortless. And I've lost track of a way to gage just how happy I am.
I can't explain how lucky I got when I met you.