I so very often think about my future love. Where does he live? What are his hobbies, his hopes, his dreams? I wonder how his childhood was spent, if he was wild and carefree. I wonder about his family, I wonder about his passions. I pray for his struggles, his strength, his nights and his days.
I know this longing for him is from our God. I know he’s out there, and that thought is oh so comforting.
You will call me sweetheart
and I will still stumble over
I will want to know how many breaths you take after waking up
before you consider yourself alive
I will shiver when you touch me
do not be offended;
you are the warmest person I know.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”
― John Keats