Today I told you that you were the most beautiful terminally ill girl in the world, and you laughed. It’s cute that you think I’m joking.
I want to be responsible for you, my love. I want to take you to places you shouldn’t be and watch you get nervous and wrap my arms around you lovingly so you know that you’re safe. I want to whisper in your ear about stupid things and take your hand and lead you around San Francisco from coffee shop to coffee shop while we get light-headed and have to sit down. I want to get tired with you, my love.
Get your bags and we leave. If you woke me up and you smiled and you raised your bags, I would leave with you within seconds. I would get us a taxi and I would get us directions and I would watch you blush out of embarrassment and I would squeeze your hand. A city can take care of us just as much as any hospital can and I can carry you if you fall asleep and I’ll carry you to the ends of the earth where the stars fall apart into dust and blind us if I have to, just please, come with me. Come with me and never look back. That’s all I ask.
