Thursday, 25 August 2011

your wife of 363 days

i can’t do the talk like they talk on tv

and i can’t do a love song like the way it’s meant to be

i can’t do everything but i’d do anything for you

i can’t do anything except be in love with you

this played at some point during our wedding day. i have gypsophila in the house; all i need now are white roses. this time a year ago i was waiting for indian food, depending on the way you judge a year. it's funny how time flies and it's funny how everyone always says that but it does and it feels like i've not given you enough yet. everytime i hear these songs it makes me ache with the heaviness of the day, the great weight of significance and the knowledge that it will never happen again. all i can see now are deep red lights and you, and white, and circles. i've never felt as tired as i did that evening as the nerves turned to exhaustion.

i've been married for almost a year now and there is gypsophila in the house. today you came home and you called me your wife of 636 days. in the garden it smelled wet and warm and comfortable; stark contrast to the week in my memory. our olive bush, i thought long dead, has burst into life again. we can suffer through anything my dear, any thing at all. i won't say i believe in any superstition, but i will say that there was hope in those new shoots. of whatever there is that doesn't go on, i know it won't be us.

it's all yours, as you know

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