That night was too much sangria in my mason jar and cheeks flushed to match or that moment when you grabbed my hand and how it felt comfortable to be close for no other reason than just that.

It is nice. (So file that under things to remember)

When I’m not busy folding into myself or the swirling black hole my anxieties constantly threaten, I am loud jokes and another bottle of blue moon, rambling, easy conversation or just there with you. I am not trying to make this sound more romantic than it really is, but I could’ve curled up right there on the floor and fallen fast asleep beside you (instead of, keys in hand, marching home) and been content in the simple chaos of it all.

I imagine that I might be this way forever. Always more willing to curl up inside of a moment than to watch it sputter and die. Always the last soft footsteps on the threshold, closing the door in the latch as quietly as I can behind me as I go.