you.

Of all the time we spend together in a day, the morning's my favorite part.

When we're in different cities, your voice on the other end of the phone kickstarts my day and gives me energy, like a solar panel absorbing sunshine. When we're together, squirming under the sheets and discovering new ways to fit together, mornings are euphoric. I inhale your smell and graze your skin with my lips and fingertips. And then there's your smile. "Hi," you'll say – soft and high. "Hi babe."

I've never seen a smile like yours; it takes up your entire face. Accented by the glow of a skylight, your smile is its own creature, waking and coming anew– reaching and stretching towards your eyes. When you smile, I can't help but smile myself. In those moments, at the onset of something new, I'm the happiest I'll be all day.

I want you to have every opportunity to be happy. And not just in moments of intimate, closed-off-from-the-world togetherness. Because I made a promise to you, and I'm going to keep it. Do what makes you happy and I will be there.

The next morning is imminent. And I'll be with you when it comes. Always.

***

“I love a skyline,” you said, nodding towards the cluster of buildings in the distance.

“The Cathedral, Hotel Monteleone, Harrah’s, the aquarium.” Like a seek-and-find game in Highlights Magazine, I scanned the buildings and located every landmark you named, realizing [for the first time] that the Monteleone was left of St. Louis Cathedral. Weird, I thought. I never knew that.

When you visited San Francisco the first time, you said the same thing. “I love a skyline.” Here, I was able to point out Salesforce Tower and Google’s Spear Street Office. I was still learning, but proud of myself for knowing two of the infinite buildings that make up the Financial District.

In my mind, I filed away skylines along with craft breweries, Teen Wolf, Drake, Nike stores, blackjack, and grilled cheese sandwiches.

***

Last night, we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms and breathing only the air between us.

Every few hours, I was awoken by the soft touch of your fingertips across my face.

“Hey,” you said in a whisper. “I love you.”

Briefly breaking the surface of my dreams, I said, “I love you.”

And then I slipped back under – returning to the depth of my own personal twilight.

Visit Vancouver

Last night, I dreamt I attended a surprise birthday party that turned out to be a surprise sex party.

Quickly after disrobing and entering the pile, I lost my wallet and phone. I spent the rest of the dream searching – eventually finding my wallet (missing everything including my Clipper Card), and tracking my iPhone across the border to Vancouver where it disappeared upon dying.

Waking up, I see my phone lying mere inches from my face on the pillow.

At the top of my inbox, there's an ad from Airbnb; "Visit Vancouver."

Moving Hands

Everyone has a clock inside them that ticks away the minutes.

It takes nine months to wind itself up, and the minute you enter the world, the little hand jumps forward.

When you do something good for yourself, the clock slows down. And when you do something harmful, the clock speeds up. That way, you're always in control of how much time you've got.

But when I look at you, my clock stops.

It takes a little break.

It lets me live outside of my timeline, just for a moment.

Because whether my time here is long or short, my clock knows that every moment with you is time well spent.

Men Wearing Rings

There's a guy sitting across from me on the Google shuttle from Mountain View to San Francisco. Good-looking Asian man in a henley and tortoise shell frames. On his left hand, he's wearing a wedding ring.

A few months ago, I had a conversation with Emily at Tsunami in New Orleans. "I never notice that kind of thing," I said. "When women are pregnant or when men wear rings. Breezes right by me. But women seem ridiculously in-tune to it—like on a primal level. Every single one of my girlfriends can spot a ring from across a crowded room. But when they call it to my attention, I feel blindsided. What the fuck, I think. I can't even find myself in a group photo."

But at Coffee Culture in late-July, I noticed a wedding band on a man pointing at a breakfast pastry inside a glass display case. "Cheese," he said. "Now does that mean cream cheese or like provolone or something?"

My friend Matt's friend Brett was wearing a gold ring on his left hand while plucking ramen from a bowl at Chow on Church. I noticed it almost immediately, and then I noticed I noticed.

At this moment, there's a guy reclining across from me on the GBus, wearing a simple band around his ring finger. And if I'm being honest, I noticed the ring before I saw his face.

Part of me feels like I never noticed pregnant women or married men because I didn't live in their world. It's not in the cards, so why would I notice at all?

But now—with you—I'm sharing my present and building our future. Browsing for rings isn't a fantasy. It's something I did this morning while listening to the playlist you made me. Size 8, yeah?

Being your partner gives everything more context.

Suddenly, I've got more options; more possibilities.

You've cracked open the world.

The shuttle creaks to a stop at Market and 9th, and everyone rises to their feet. In a single-file line, we descend the steps and land on the busy, rush hour street. I watch the handsome, be-speckled Asian guy disappear into the crowd navigating the crosswalk. And then I turn away and march down 9th towards my apartment, passing exactly 12 men wearing rings.

What I Wouldn't Change

I wouldn’t change my legs. There’s always room for improvement, but I think my thighs and my calves are pretty sexy as is, especially in athletic shorts and crew socks. Legs are an easy default for folks to hang their self confidence upon, but my toned runner’s legs, covered in trim waves of blond hair, are objectively hot. And that’s my stance on that.

I wouldn't change anything about my face, except for a few hard lines etched into my forehead and around my smile. In my reflection, I see my mom’s eyes and my dad’s mouth. I like being reminded of where I come from. Thank God they’re not terrible assholes.

I wouldn’t change my carrier service. $130 a month seems like I’m overpaying, but just the thought of leaving AT&T seems like a nightmare. Avoiding the hold time alone is worth whatever cash is being swindled away from me.

I wouldn’t change my lisp. Since I was a little kid, people have poked fun at the way I talk. Inching towards 30, I still struggle to be taken seriously in a conversation. My wide tongue grapples with fricatives like a clown fish trying to escape the jaws of a hammerhead. But I wouldn’t change my lisp because it’s mine and no one talks like I do. Plus, it’s forced me to cultivate a personality that projects beyond my speech—even if I’ll never know the joys of a tongue ring.

I wouldn’t change my apartment. The rent’s sky-high for a studio loft, but I don’t mind because it’s right smack in the middle of the city. From my fourth-floor balcony to my tiny, pocket-door closet, I like everything the way it is. It’s the first place I’ve lived alone. It’s my first big claim to independence. It’s my haven in this sparkling, bustling city. Though it would be nice to have a Subway inside the building. Hoofing my way down Mission five times a week for my Oven-Roasted Chicken on Italian Herb & Cheese is getting old. Even if it’s right around the corner.

I wouldn’t change my childhood. I can’t change my childhood. But if I could, I wouldn't.

Speaking of things I can’t change but wouldn’t if I could: my ability to forgive. I can take in a painful experience and channel it through a filter of forgiveness—almost immediately. It can be jarring when the person with whom I’m arguing watches my shoulders and the corners of my mouth relax, right after saying some bitchy and below-the-belt. “You’ve got a body like Whoopi Goldberg!” or “Fuck you, your sister’s in rehab!” maybe. But in the same breath, I can step outside of the disagreement and move along. “I’m sorry,” I’ll say. “Where can we go from here?” And the other party—stunned, mouth agape—will typically stutter and get in a few final jabs before moving along with me. I don’t want to lose that talent. It's necessary and hilarious.

I wouldn’t change my eyebrows. I’ve never tweezed them, shaped them, threaded them, or otherwise. Subtle and low-maintenance. Nothing like me. But everything I aspire to be.

And I wouldn’t change you.

I wouldn’t change the patterns of hair on your chest, or your heavy eyes when you’re drunk, or the volume of your voice when you rap Drake lyrics at me in the car.

I wouldn’t change the way you dress—actually, I love the way you dress. Even the rubber flip flops you wear with nice clothes. Even your Adidas gym shorts with the worn-out waistband. Even that time you wore a tank top to the House of Blues. Actually, we should talk about that.

I wouldn’t change the fact that I missed my shuttle to work today because you were having a bad morning and you desperately needed to talk to me. And I lied. I missed two shuttles. But I would do it again because I’m your partner and there’s always another shuttle.

I wouldn’t change the hours we said we lost with fighting. We didn’t lose them at all. Sure, we could’ve been saying nicer things instead and yelling, but now we’re here. And our time together is more valuable than anything I’ll ever own. Because life is short and even hours spent fighting are hours spent with you.

I wouldn’t change anything about you.

Not a thing.

So don’t alter anything.

Please stay the same.

And don’t move.

Stay right there.

I’m on my way.

What Are Your Plans?

I was planning on grad school.

Eventually, I’d re-enroll and finish up my Master’s degree.

My resume says I have a M.S. in Communications, but that’s not exactly true. I bailed with one semester left  — choosing my budding career as a Junior Copywriter over 3-hour weekly Comm. Theory labs. But honestly, I always planned on going back and knocking it out. I’ve gotten far enough without it, but it’s an integrity thing, you know?

---

I was planning on staying in New Orleans for just a little longer.

I had one foot out the door, but I didn’t really have anywhere to go.

My role as a Senior Copywriter was fine, I guess. I advanced relatively quickly, but after that first promotion, it felt like years before the next one would come along. Still, I could’ve hung on for a bit before moving onto elsewhere else, which happened all of sudden, pulling my complacent life out from under me. My future was a dead end, but thankfully, it didn’t extend beyond summer 2017.

---

I was planning on moving to Europe.

This wasn’t really a plan, so much as a vague, paper-thin aspiration. But still, it was an option.

Writers can live anywhere, right? I imagined saving enough cash to hold me over for a few months and then taking my bullshit across the Atlantic — writing website copy for American companies while sipping espresso [which I hate] and taking a shine to infinity scarves [please don’t make me]. Paris is cliché, but it was my first choice. I know I’d feel isolated in Dublin. And Italy feels more like New Orleans than France. So maybe I’d backpack around for a bit before finding something I liked. Then I’d return to the states and create a six-month plan for my new life abroad. It was lofty, but it could’ve worked.

---

I thought about starting a business.

Like a real business.

I’ve got my copywriter sidehustle now, but I planned on taking it off the ground into a full-blown agency. Being my boss wasn’t [isn’t?] important to me, but I like the idea of kicking ass on my own terms. Plus, I’ve already got the logo and letterhead. Can’t let that go to waste.

---

What about my life as a mixed media artist?

I could always abandon writing altogether, and return to my first true love: making art.

Maybe I’d have enough cash in a decade or so to jumpstart my career. Oil. Watercolor. Black and white charcoal on craft paper. Meeting my friends for happy hour with pastel wedged underneath my fingernails. Wearing acrylic stains like badges of honor.

---

But if that didn’t work out, I still had my body of work.

I imagined myself at 30, with my vibrant, extensive portfolio and the world at my fingertips.

I saw myself at 40, owning one or two things of value. A Creative Director with a mortgage. Pets? Probably not. I’m allergic to cats and dogs. Some people might hear this and think, bummer. But I don’t really know what I’m missing.

At 50?

I never considered what my life might be at 50.

After 50? Not a clue.

No plans.

---

I saw the fabric of my life fraying out at the edges and then creating new patterns in every direction — spreading out across oceans and along parallel paths of time. No endpoint in sight, but definitely plans. Plan A. Plan B. Back-up plans. Tertiary plans. Worst case scenarios.

At 28, I had no tethers. No anchors. Infinite options.

No one but me.

---

And then there was you.

And then there was you and me.

And then us.

---

My plans?

Hopefully, I spend hours, upon hours, upon hours listening to music with you.

Hopefully, I have to learn to cook the things you like. I know you’ve got the palette of a fifth grader, but I still want to make the best chicken tenders you’ve ever eaten.

Hopefully, I’m forced to make small talk with your parents. But just so we’re clear, they’re wonderful parents and every moment spent discussing our shared love of Lafayette, Gretna, or Buc-ee’s is time well spent.

Hopefully, my future is a series of conversations, and pictures, and pockets of time where everything stops because I haven’t seen you in weeks, so I savor the smell of your skin in baggage claim.

Hopefully, the days ahead are spent compromising dinner spots, and picking out furniture, and discussing real estate.

Hopefully, my plans are making a family with you. Whether that means just the two of us or more, I want to create a family worthy of our individual upbringings.

Hopefully, I can wrap this up soon and we can talk.

Hopefully, you’ll leave the gym in a few minutes and I can tell you that I love waking up to a slew of texts from you. Then morning FaceTime in bed. Then morning phone brief in transit. Then constant Snaps, Insta DMs, texts, and mid-day phone check-ins. Then afternoon phone debrief in transit. Then evening affirmations. Then nighttime FaceTime in bed.

Hopefully, you’re the only plans I have for the rest of my life.

---

In just a few minutes, I’m going to call you.

And let you know that I’ve got a plan.

Come with me.

Let’s go somewhere.

To Be In Love

Right now, you're asleep in my bed and I'm sitting on my balcony at 4:51AM on Sunday, July 2, 2017.

Yesterday felt like the hottest day of the year, thus far. But at this moment, the breeze making its way across the Lower Garden District could fool any local into believing it’s a typical September dawn in New Orleans.

I’ve been awake for hours — restlessly shifting from one position to another and renegotiating the symmetries of our bodies. In my arms, I watched you dose off, and then eventually lapse into a natural pattern of calm and steady breathing. I willed myself to sleep shortly thereafter so I could join you, wherever you went. So I can find you and continue our conversation, in some other state of consciousness.

A few days ago, you asked me what it was like to be in love. “It’s excruciating,” I said. “It’s nagging anxiety that you’re going to fuck something up. It distracts you from getting work done and from keeping up with your day-to-day routine. It’s being terrified that someone is going to notice your imperfections and then hate you for being imperfect. In your head, you turn over impossible scenarios, over and over again. You lose sleep over it. You reprioritize your life for it. And none of it makes any sense."

"But,” I said. “You endure it anyway because it’s worth it.”

It took me 29 years to write my own definition of "what it’s like to be in love.”

But today, I changed my mind.

Today, staring at you on the rooftop of The Ponchartrain Hotel, my clunky, acidic definition of love came undone.

Go ahead.

Ask me a second time.

If you did, I’d tell that being in love is wonderful. It’s like being happy all the time. It’s like seeing the best in someone when you’re not even looking. It’s admiring the pores across your face because they’re your pores. It's the need to be a kinder, more thoughtful person. 

What’s it like to be in love? It’s fun as shit. It’s being excited about tomorrow instead of worrying if someone is going to answer your texts. It’s wanting to be a part of the family without having met anyone. It's being with you and looking forward to the next time I see you.

When I go back inside the apartment, I’m going to slam the balcony door a little harder than usual.

Hopefully, the sound will wake you up.

Then, I can quietly reenter my bedroom and find you shaking off slumber.

And we can talk.

I can’t wait to talk to you.