Last Friday night I tossed the puppies in a cab and zoomed off to Brooklyn to see someone I haven’t stopped thinking about since the day we met.
I got home Monday morning.
However, happily, I can finally say that I’m in a place past words. Most of my words recently are being oozed in ink over blank page notebooks or into love letters for a man who is nothing like anyone I have ever known.
Last weekend was magical. I wore beaded bangle bracelets and we strolled up and down the Cony Island boardwalk. We ate oysters and swapped stories.
I’ve always maintained an “everything happens for a reason” perspective, cliche as it sounds. The theory has been tried and tested, and fought with occasionally in my own headspace. But I know it’s the truth.
I feel like the final piece of why I ended up back in New York City fell from the sky about two weeks ago. The thought of it makes my stomach drop and skin glow. It isn’t an erratic “let’s fall in love and be wild” experience that I’ve seen a few times over the past four years. It’s a lull in my soul that I’m still becoming familiar with.