It’s all true. Everything they wrote.

That’s the kind of romance. Slow strings and deep bases. Rain drops over open lips make for foggy kisses. That’s the kind of romance.

Nowadays you’re a romantic if you wash your hands before you fingerbang a stranger in a public bathroom. A real gentleman if you warn her before you bust all over her eyelashes. Netflix and delivery pizza. Anniversary dinners with the same button up tucked into your JC Penny’s jeans. Your faces look the same in every picture because those are the only smiles you can fake. This is our 21st century Romeo and Juliet. You get married and fuck out a couple of babies because those are the last components to your socially accepted life.

I was that guy, once upon a time, minus the JC Penny jeans. Found this girl who didn’t care if I liked spending our time off together alone in a coffee shop writing about other girls. I thought, this could work. I found someone to be with who I’ll never actually have to be with. That’s all anybody in a relationship ever wants.

That’s when a this green eyed freakfest plot twisted the shit out of my life. You enter that surreal zone as a writer where real life becomes better than anything you could possibly write. I’ve said I’ve fallen in love with a dozen girls, but this was like love in all caps. This was thundering and explosive. This was sincere – I wasn’t copying the words I wrote out for my characters.

Love like that you kinda have to drop everything for. A bullet train with no space for baggage. Everything in my life crashed down in a blaze of fire when I made the choice to hop on. I became the villain in a lot of stories but it felt good. Breaking the chain. The illusion. I felt like Neo and I’d just taken the red pill.

Cue secret rendezvous in back alleys and sweaty sex behind foggy car windows. Lies to everybody but each other. Early morning naps before work in a park. You can find poetry in life. When three or four perfect things happen at the same time it’s like the gods are rhyming. You never really understand why love stories are written until you’re in the middle of it. Every kiss feels like flash fire. Every graze of her fingers. Every breath on your neck. It feels like the first second of the universe. You can remember every day because the way the wind blows her scent in your face is so consistent that everything becomes a pattern. You’re not trying to go through the motions but the poetry of life forces it, and it feels good.

Days go by and you expect it to stop and when it doesn’t, you think maybe it’s true. Everything they wrote. All those love stories and fairytales. Maybe they’re all true.

Then one of those days happen when you guys get in a fight over groceries and you think goddamn this bitch.

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