Today marks two years. Two of the most romantically fulfilling years of my life. Granted, my life is only made up of 25 years, but I was not expecting this kind of contentment when a blonde, muscle-bound young man started slipping me corny, yet wildly original, poems at work. It turns out that this athletic "Ah-nold" disciple (with great calves in my opinion and "mind-blowing biceps" in his) is also as dedicated in his relationships.
And I know that the skeptics reading this, both married and single, are shaking their heads or smirking that I feel "romantic fulfillment". Well, snicker away because this incredible man from humble Kentucky roots has turned into a man worth loving - a man worth trusting - a man with a heart so full of love for me, that it spills over with loyalty; a treasure chest for my insecurities and for my dreams. His heart beats for mine. I can put my hand to my chest and hear the music his would make beating alongside. An unforced rhythm - an easy love.
We are separated by miles and dreams to chase. He is finishing up a degree, a piece of paper that he probably deserves more than I did. I am trudging a crowded path in the arts. He says he can hear me in his big, empty house. I say I can feel him run his fingers through my hair. He says he can feel my fingernails run across his back. I say that I close my eyes and sit still until I know exactly the scent of his breath on my cheek - know exactly the touch of his calloused hands on my belly - know exactly the taste of his full lips.
We talk on the phone tonight. We wish each other a happy anniversary. And in those few, awkward, long-distance pauses - the ones filled only by background noise - by the commercials he's not watching and the radio station I'm not swaying to... In those moments, I hear his devotion and I send him my love.
And we look toward the year to come... together.
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