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I haven't a clue what people think of us looking from the outside in, but I know: we're deep-down good. We're satisfying like chicken n dumplins, and not sad flat dumplins, either, but dumplins big and round as golf balls.
I've never once worried you might choose someone or something over me or somewhere over home.
To me, you're the 1994 you, howling your love in the middle of the day, in the middle of a crowd, in the middle of a courtyard. I see you shoving me against that tree where you'd stashed a rose and carrying me, on your back, after I'd twisted my ankle. You're the 1994 you, only less broke-ass.
The 2012 you knows things like how to stretch a dime (I've never in my life seen such a stretched-out dime, matter of fact.); play speed Candy Land; tell fairy tales on demand; and make perfect sausage gravy. There's that other thing, too. You know the one I mean, Hot Boy.
You watch over my soul. We both know: it ain't no joke, but--until you decided to try me all over again--my soul wasn't half so good.
I would marry you again times a million bazillion.
Pleased to hold my marriage up to the light with Amber and friends.