Dearest Lovebirds,
I am thrilled to share these beautiful moments with you. Thank you for sharing the raw, the real, the {LOVE} with us. Your words are moving vignettes that my mind replays again and again. This is going to be a nice relationship. Merci.
Please do not copy any of the following texts. The authors are protected under US Copyright Law. Permission must be granted from the individual authors.
INTRO LETTER written by Finalist X, Angela
I'm in love, and likewise, my actions are influenced every day by my heart, and the lyrics of my mind are moved by my soul. At night, I sometimes try to fold up those words that I have known for so long into little paper airplanes, to fly over the long-distance in my long-distance relationship, and span the stretch of heartstrings.
These stories are written as such, lullabies to my girl far away, to help her sleep; that she might feel me right by her side. Of course, I hope they win- nothing helps distance like a perfect photograph to look and see what gets you through each day from afar. But, either way, I'm already the winner- after all, I have the girl. Peace.
These stories are written as such, lullabies to my girl far away, to help her sleep; that she might feel me right by her side. Of course, I hope they win- nothing helps distance like a perfect photograph to look and see what gets you through each day from afar. But, either way, I'm already the winner- after all, I have the girl. Peace.
"HESITATION" written by Finalist X, Angela
It was a dark, crisp night, a night with that smell of dark, and crisp.
The chill seeped into my bones and when I breathed in, my lungs grumbled complaints at the shock of the unseasonally frigid air.
The sky was mostly clear, and that alone allowed light to ring cleanly like a small bell, not like light usually hung in the warmer, cloudy, foggy nights.
It was that clarity that allowed me a newfound sense of prediction; that I could see the future before me. I heard things that had not yet been said in the eyes of those around me and had my comebacks readily prepared. I tasted the food in front of me before it reached my mouth with inane accuracy. The words in my mouth seemed already spoken, that night, before I had even begun to inflict diction upon them with my tongue.
In such a manner, I looked down at my lonely phone longingly, with a sense of inhuman expectation, in the moment which she almost called me. It was as if I heard it almost ring, felt it almost buzz, heard her almost hullo.
Having already felt that she was on another end, waiting, I wondered in a philosophical manner if I was stuck in a rift of Schrödinger’s crush: if I called, would she turn me down only because I called and I would never know without calling her? How could I keep from killing the cat?
Her name stood like a trophy at the top of my phone's contacts list, reigning, king of the hill in the technologically advanced Rolodex.
My fingers itched, twiched, with the early presence of action lingering in their tips, to dial, to hit the green button and have her highlighted name become an electrical signal leading to a wavelength connection leading to a physical connection and an electrical signal from my fingers directly to her, nothing in between.
That was a run on sentence, and so was my heartbeat, not taking breaks for a breath to squeeze in, not taking a measure of rest for any organ to preside in orchestration.
The heart was leading me, not the brain; the signal for my finger to press that green key came directly from the heart; synapses fired where they could seemingly not take charge.
And her voice: Hullo?
With a timbre that hit the resonant frequency in my skin, and made all of me tremble.
That sentence was a fragment and so were my breaths as I forgot how to remind myself to maintain life functions with the anticipation of her and me being "her and me."
“Hey yourself.”
Words, letters, strung together like my urgency and manners and shy communication compiled like popcorn garland, each piece strung delicately and out of place in hope of something beautiful.
There it was, the rest came cascading out of time, like a pond transposed into a waterfall. The stagnant waters of my love and affection were reaching speeds and heights that were out of their realm, with just meeting her for a date. Her laughter brought up green sprigs of life in the stream that flowed through me. It still does, every day; flowers grow in the wake of her smile.
Now when I see the future, it is not in the almost, nor in the occurring, but in the dreams that are made of true love.
On a crisp, dark night like now, the moon shines full and my every inch is warm, shaking in knowing that there is a clarity outside of the stars and the sound of slow water. A life is within me blooming, flowers planted in her smile, the girl that went from almost to yes.
I hesitate still, by nature, in actions. My hands will move slowly to hold hers; my feet will be steadily paced perfectly with her steps, my eyes are ever rising with shyness to meet refuge in hers. But my aim is true, regardless of the speed it takes for action and reaction.
All these actions are tied together by their intent.
Love is the constant, and yes, I love her.
(The end.)
"TIMELESS CLASSIC" written by Finalist Y, Molly Campau
From the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew our relationship would be significant. I didn't know it would take four job losses, three deaths, two wars and one far-fetched journey to solidify our bond. I'm glad it did. A little over nine years after the day we met, Sean and I will be exchanging vows. Like the ever-fashionable staple in one’s wardrobe or home – a little black dress or a leather ottoman – which withstands the myriad of fads, so has our relationship withstood the test of time. Sean and I are timeless classics, here to stay."
"COLORS" written by Finalist Z, Annalise Gardella
It doesn’t rain in Nevada, not like it rains in Oregon. When rain hits desert land, the land doesn’t know what to do. At first, the foreign substance is repelled, and then soaked up ravenously. Nevada craves and needs every drop of water, penny for the poor. Oregon land takes rain for granted. It absorbs it, bathing, marinating, a spa for the rich. Oregon land drinks until it can’t drink anymore, then it just lets the water spill everywhere, coating everything and making the world a giant puddle.
I was in Oregon rain.
Water came in all directions, enticing my curls and gluing the leaves to the ground.
My foot hit the pavement purposefully, my arms swung out. Something about rain just makes me want to dance.
No, it’s not just the rain.
I was spinning to the beat of my heart, and to the beat of hers, too.
She caught up to my hand and laced her fingers with mine.
The leaves were red. They were orange and yellow, and red. They were vibrant and they were flaunting their color. The tree roots twisted, intimidating in size. They were chairs; they were creatures; they were art. The wet, dark brown of the trees’ bark knotted and grew into trunks, then into branches. The branches hung over my head, almost covering the sky. The sky was grey. It was a muted silver and pearly white, and grey. There was one continuous cloud. The cloud was textured and dripping. It was dripping and pouring and sharing its water with us. Were there other people? I can’t recall.
I thought I saw colors before, but I had never seen colors. Before I met her, I didn’t know colors.
With her, I did not hurry and I took the time to dance. Without her, I would have never seen the colors. I would have never seen the art. But framed behind her, the world moved more slowly and more gracefully than in my loneliness. I saw the colors, and I saw the art.
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