forever young

I hope we’re young forever. Not the kind of young that is vain, that flinches at the sight of a wrinkle. As a Libra, I love beauty, but I respect it enough to know it goes through phases as well. I mean young as in laughing with each other until two in the morning, as if we’re just having a teenage sleepover instead of simply going to bed together. Young like I don’t care where we are or what music is playing, as long as you take my hand and dance with me. Young as in time might pass, but we are still rooted in us. Like I can look into your eyes and still see the same person I fell in love with, no matter how much those eyes have seen or what has changed.

I want to be forever young.

I never want to stop feeling this young, and I don’t want you to lose this feeling, either. If I stick my head out of the window thirty years from now, would you drive a little faster so I could feel the wind on my skin? In fifty years, will you sit and watch my comfort kids’ movies with me? Will you still laugh when we’re both trying to sleep, out of breath and smiling from not being able to stop?

Do you really want to live forever?

As time passes, hold onto this. Hold onto how it all felt. The kiss after our first date: Chappell Roan playing in the background and our faces lit up by the lights of the local movie theatre. The way I ran to you on the beach. The “I miss you” through the phone when it’s late and you’re all I want. The way we find ourselves always holding hands when we’re driving: our gentle little lover’s lane. The first dance after we got married: in a tiny little hotel room, staring out into downtown Chicago, bare feet on the hardwood floor.

Forever, forever young.