This is all due to nerves and going stir crazy because even with a full house, it still feels quiet and empty. He's not home... he's out in the field. He's doing part of what has always made him my hero. That opened the door to me falling in love with him. And I am in love with this Marine. Madly. Head over heels in love.
Perhaps a bit of background is due. I was the typical southern little girl... my head was full of dreams of fairy tales and romance. I adored true love, craved it. Even from a young age, my dreams, both waking and sleeping, were marked by that impression on my soul. The biggest difference is that while others were playing with dolls and wishing for domestic life, I was dreaming of valiant warriors and wishing for a life filled with castles and fantastic adventures. And when they grew out of playing with their dolls, I just began playing with swords and developing my own worlds where I was a princess but not your standard damsel in distress. My heroes needed my saving now and then. I never gave up on my dreams, my fantasies.
When I reached puberty and began searching for my one true mate in all the boys that I knew, I was given a gift... I prefer to think it was a gift of God, seeing that I needed something to hold onto as my body changes began manifesting new scary things... things I would later learn to be chronic diseases, Bipolar Disorder with anxiety and insomnia. Diabetes. Asthma. What was my gift? It was amazing, yet something that I had to keep secret because people would call me crazy. I could feel him there, in a psychic sense. My mate was with me, and I could communicate with him if I focused, though it was easier if I was drifting towards sleep when my mind relaxed and I didn't have to be aware of everything and everyone around me. He was gentle, loving, and he always spoke of the life we would share. He always told me "You and I will meet... I may not look like what you see in your dreams when we are together there. But you will know me by my voice, and by my touch." How little I understood what that meant, and how I wish I had held to that at all times, even in the face of temptation.
I couldn't tell you what he truly looked like. In my dreams, he had long dark hair, a deep brown or black, and a very distinctly sharp jawline. He was a little taller than me, with my small 5 foot tall frame, and he had broader shoulders than mine, but he wasn't a linebacker or a jock. His hands were larger than mine but not the fingers like sausage that so many athletic men had. And they were soft even though they had calluses where he'd worked hard with them. But all I ever remembered of his facial features was that he had eyes that you could drown in. They were a deep blue-green, and I so loved those eyes. They smiled, they laughed, and most of all, they loved me. And I loved waking with the lingering feeling of his arms around me. That carried me through
Perhaps a bit of background is due. I was the typical southern little girl... my head was full of dreams of fairy tales and romance. I adored true love, craved it. Even from a young age, my dreams, both waking and sleeping, were marked by that impression on my soul. The biggest difference is that while others were playing with dolls and wishing for domestic life, I was dreaming of valiant warriors and wishing for a life filled with castles and fantastic adventures. And when they grew out of playing with their dolls, I just began playing with swords and developing my own worlds where I was a princess but not your standard damsel in distress. My heroes needed my saving now and then. I never gave up on my dreams, my fantasies.
When I reached puberty and began searching for my one true mate in all the boys that I knew, I was given a gift... I prefer to think it was a gift of God, seeing that I needed something to hold onto as my body changes began manifesting new scary things... things I would later learn to be chronic diseases, Bipolar Disorder with anxiety and insomnia. Diabetes. Asthma. What was my gift? It was amazing, yet something that I had to keep secret because people would call me crazy. I could feel him there, in a psychic sense. My mate was with me, and I could communicate with him if I focused, though it was easier if I was drifting towards sleep when my mind relaxed and I didn't have to be aware of everything and everyone around me. He was gentle, loving, and he always spoke of the life we would share. He always told me "You and I will meet... I may not look like what you see in your dreams when we are together there. But you will know me by my voice, and by my touch." How little I understood what that meant, and how I wish I had held to that at all times, even in the face of temptation.
I couldn't tell you what he truly looked like. In my dreams, he had long dark hair, a deep brown or black, and a very distinctly sharp jawline. He was a little taller than me, with my small 5 foot tall frame, and he had broader shoulders than mine, but he wasn't a linebacker or a jock. His hands were larger than mine but not the fingers like sausage that so many athletic men had. And they were soft even though they had calluses where he'd worked hard with them. But all I ever remembered of his facial features was that he had eyes that you could drown in. They were a deep blue-green, and I so loved those eyes. They smiled, they laughed, and most of all, they loved me. And I loved waking with the lingering feeling of his arms around me. That carried me through
