For you.

I didn't run up my sweeping, grand staircase to write this.



I don't have a master bedroom suite. I don't think you could call my
room "master". I have one bathroom. And its damn tiny. I don't drive
a fancy car or even the cutting edge family truckster. I am typing on
a decent computer that was purchased because who I work for let me
borrow the money to buy it. Every piece of furniture in my house is
second hand except for the couch. And Aaron bought that when he was
single. And its a futon.



My yard looks like a small civil war took place in it and then spread dog poo to keep the enemy at bay.



But damn if I don't get to walk up my little staircase with the love of
my life at night. Gosh I love my cramped, little, sorta broke life.
It isn't perfect, but the parts that are... their the one's that
count.



Ever feel like that? Like the little shit is just that... little. I
have days where this stuff really gets under my skin. Painfully under
there, subcutaneous. And then I have a few days with him and it all
seems right. Maybe its his smile, that dimple always killed me.
Usually its because I can just say something so stupid and it will send
him into this crazy fit of laughter. Or sometimes, I'll be in my
flannels and we're watching tv and I feel like I've got my hair did and
my makeup on because he makes me feel so beautifully loved.



This is one crazy life I have. But every time I get an hour or two with him, it just feels so damn peaceful.