an open letter to my one-day-Sunday-someone

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Don’t underestimate just how far flowers will go.


Ask me to dance. On the subway platform, at the bar, in our living room. Not because you can, or I can, but because who cares? Because that’s not the point. Because the last guy didn’t. Because you’d use any excuse to place the palm of your hand on the low of my back.Because we’re a little bit foolish you and I (and thank God for that).


Encourage me to write. I like myself better when I’m full of and on words—or in pursuit of them, at least.


I’m an introvert. I’ll need the occasional time and space to just be alone. Give me that.


Sometimes I eat tortilla chips in the shower. Or under the covers. Or barefoot in the kitchen before I’ve even poured my morning coffee. And I really like my morning coffee.


On hard days, when I’m feeling a little blue, I’ll get a latte just for the warmth between my hands. Let me.


Don’t ever ask me how a writer makes a living.


The sound of someone eating an apple is enough to drive me from the room.


Social graces only go so far; a person is nothing without empathy. We will raise children who know the difference.


Yeah, I want you to cut a fine silhouette in a tux, but I'm far more excited about the mettle of the man beneath.


I have no poker face.


Sometimes when I’m nervous I'll get a little quiet, a little unfriendly, a little prickly. It means I like you. I know it doesn't make any sense. To me either! Please forgive me these’s just that sometimes looking at you is like looking at the sun. Good and overwhelming and a little blinding.


I’ve been staring at the computer for an hour now, thinking on what else to write, but my mind keeps coming back to your penny-loafers and your sometimes-side-part and hell if I’m not sunk.



*ps: Take me to Paris one day, won't you?*


photo source. 

(It's been a while since one of these, no?

You can find others here.)