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.
You already know there are a few touchy issues engaged couples are "supposed" to talk about before making it official.
We all fight for our bit of colored ribbon, for what we want, however small or grand. How strange is it then that people who work with their hands, fight with their fists.
"I can't promise following this advice will stop all the fights," she said. "But it'll help. Why don't you try it for a while and see what happens?"