It’s not exactly what I’ve always wanted, except sometimes it is. But if I said it was always exactly what I’ve always wanted, that would (of course) be a lie.

For example, sometimes I feel like you’re getting the most dinged up version of me and truth be told, I feel worse for the wear. I wish I could have met you when I was twenty and I still had the quality of a shiny penny face up on the sidewalk.

Sometimes, it feels that I met you at the end of the world—and maybe I did. I wish we had more time, or different time. I wish I could have met you in time to fuck in a dozen different cities, at this point I’d even settle for a dozen different bars.

And I wish I’d met you at a time when you’re ready to deep dive into difficult conversations because all the exposition around “the right time to talk” is exhausting for someone as curious and eager as I am.

But at least some of the time, it’s as good as I imagined. Maybe some of those times, it’s actually better.

When we sit shoulder-to-shoulder in your pink bed sheets & read; when you get excited about cooking with leftover sauce; when you look at the spines of my books in my living room; when we listen to each other’s playlists and make fun of each other for being sad, sentimental, and literal; when we walk the dogs together through your neighborhood park or wash the dishes together; when you buy books I’ve read so that we can talk about them; when I came back early from Chicago because I needed to see you and you parked your car and waited for me at baggage claim; even when you wake me up at ungodly hours by whispering “baby” into my hair: that’s exactly what I’ve wanted.

In those moments (and honestly, even in the moments that don’t quite measure up), I’m so afraid I won’t be able to rise to this occasion.