Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot,
who calls you back when you hang up on him,
who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat,
or will stay awake just to watch you sleep...
wait for the boy who kisses your forehead,
who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats,
who holds your hand in front of his friends,
who thinks you' re just as pretty without makeup on.
One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares
and how lucky he is to have YOU...
The one who turns to his friends and says,
thats her...
------
Love is a temporary madness.
It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion.
That is just being "in love"
which any of us can convince ourselves we are.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art
and a fortunate accident.
Your mother and I had it,
we had roots that grew towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches
we found that we were one tree and not two.
------
who calls you back when you hang up on him,
who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat,
or will stay awake just to watch you sleep...
wait for the boy who kisses your forehead,
who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats,
who holds your hand in front of his friends,
who thinks you' re just as pretty without makeup on.
One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares
and how lucky he is to have YOU...
The one who turns to his friends and says,
thats her...
------
Love is a temporary madness.
It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion.
That is just being "in love"
which any of us can convince ourselves we are.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art
and a fortunate accident.
Your mother and I had it,
we had roots that grew towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches
we found that we were one tree and not two.
------
