fights

We're very understanding of one another - mostly. Admittedly, our mostly doesn't always work. When "doesn't always work" is doing its work, I shove my laptop into my backpack and head to a coffee shop to write.
I don't hang onto much. I think I'm pretty low-maintenance when it comes to Valentine's Day: I don't want to go out to an expensive dinner, I do not ever ask for jewelry, and I don't even like red roses. But you f*ck with my vintage-looking heart tree, and I'll cut you.
As the capacity to love one another grows, we become increasingly able to rest comfortably in the knowledge that we are loved for who we are, not what we do. Over time, we may come to experience a previously unknown well of self-love. Feeling loved and really letting that in provides a fantastic sense of freedom -- freedom from fear of loss and freedom to be ourselves fully.
Milton comes in. There is little poetry left in the man. He's shoeless. Toothless. His face traduced and trampled. The cracks on his face are dry. Saltiness settles in the hollows under his eyes. The dead see, too.