I’ve moved around too much I can’t remember how many homes I have been to anymore. If I can recount it, mine would be the 7th or the 8th.
I’ve moved around too much hearts I can’t remember how many hearts I have broken anymore. If I can recount it, yours would be the hundredth or the thousandth.
But here you are.
Real and warm.
From the moment our eyes met I felt like coming home to you.
Forget about my nesting ritual,
or my preoccupied heart.
When you know, you know.
Choosing to fall in love with you is like choosing an apartment.
I would consider the price, the landlord, and the furniture.
My, the sofa has to be cushy.
The bed sheet must look fresh.
Would I feel comfortable enough to sleep on the floor? Or would it be okay to bring new friends home?
I like it when the landlord tells me not to invite boys.
Do you accept instalment? Or do I have to love you in one consignment? Can I try this house first before deciding whether I want to stay here?
To go home to you is to come to a safe house.
With guards outside but a bed of roses inside.
If I want to cry, there are tissue boxes.
There is a kitchen to relieve my hunger.
Warm water is available during cold winter.
Without it I may die in my sleep.
To fall in love with you is to feel alive.