Strangers

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We clicked like we'd known each other for years; like the sound of our teeth against each other's when we kissed so ardently we couldn't focus. And for the first time I knew what it was to love, not for the bittersweet beauty of trying to fix the unfixable, or for the bruises that kissed my skin, but for the pure simplicity of her. For the perfect completeness that filled my soul every time I breathed her in. For the first time I knew what it was to love, not just to fill a hole within myself or for the gratification of being needed; I loved despite reason, or logic, or wisdom, or choice. For the first time, I didn't choose to love, but love chose me. And I knew then that the tragedies I'd written and the broken soliloquies I'd acted out were the most amateur of dramatics. For how could love be anything other than the way my heart hangs on her crooked smile when we share a joke? I thought I knew what being in love was, but that's just it; you don't know how to be in love, you just be. You don't know anything until all the empty cracks and spaces in your heart that you didn't even know existed have been filled just by the way she throws her head back when she laughs or by the way she looks at you when she takes off her bra or by the way she brings you coffee in bed while you're still sleeping or how your heart stops in it's tracks just from the way her mouth looks when she says your name. Love is not about how good you are at saying sorry, it's about being thankful for the little things. And I can't remember the time before I knew how she takes her tea or what side of the bed she sleeps on or what shampoo she uses or what her biggest fear is. She makes me come as much as she makes me laugh. She pins me down and kisses me with urgency as much as she kisses my cheek tenderly. We touch each other like we've only just met yet we complement each other like we've never been apart.

We clicked like we'd known each other for years; that's when I realised that I knew what love is.


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