I don’t want to write about love anymore.

Well, it’s getting harder and harder to write about the love in my own life.

Before…

It was easier to write about the things in my head.

Love didn’t live there.

Not for anyone but me.

I never really had a partner who had the patience to listen to my thoughts when I tried to express to them out loud.

And if they listened they’d have no coherent response.

I don’t know’s or K’s, filled my inbox where my text messages were received.

Now, I’m in a relationship with someone who allows me the safe space to let it all out. He sighs, and he begs me to get the point when I get long winded, but he listens.

He listens, and then he responds.

We have real conversations about real things that effect us individually and as a couple, and then we do something I’ve never experienced.

We problem solve.

What type of sorcery is this?

By the time I start a blog post filled with neurotic thoughts, he swoops in and calms them down, and I’m like… damn.

Do I need drama to be motivated?

God, I hope not. Because the way this relationship is set up, I may never have another blog post again.

Love.

I’m living it

Breathing it

Going to sleep next to it

Every time I sit down in front of my laptop,  my blinking cursor teases:

Are you going to do it? Are you going to tell them? Are you declaring in black and white that he’s the one?

My blog used to be the place where I worked it all out. I phrased all the questions in public that I couldn’t get answered in private.

Shared thoughts that stayed awake on pillows because there was never any talk.

Each post was like therapy.

But I’ve grown passed so much of the angst, so much of the loneliness, and I know no one wants to read about the love I’ve let in. Or do they?

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        Today is also the one year anniversary for the release of my first book. Use the code Anniversary to get 50% off of a personalized copy and some goodies. Get your copy here.

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