Love Story

You said you studied environmental engineering in college, but you write as much as Kerouac. Your words springs out of every pages you tore out of everywhere and they sound better than mine. It was a hot summer night at the park, we lied on the wet grass, gazing at the stars. You suck in astronomy, so instead of telling me if it was Orion or Centaur, you made up your own stories of the constellation with superhero names. And that's when you kneeled down and asked me if I wouldn't mind wearing a man on my finger for the rest of my life. Why couldn't you just say Harry Winston? My tears were flowing and I feel like such an idiot. You wipe out the tears off my cheek and whispered if I don't say yes, you'd run around this garden in your birthday suit. How terrifying. So I said yes. You smiled wider than the last time I saw Julia Roberts' genuinely happy photograph. And, my dear, that is how our adventures began. You took me to watch Russian ballet in Moscow and depart on a 7 days Trans-Siberian to Vladivostok. We took pop dance lesson in South Korea and taught ourselves to consume the disgusting Ginseng. We blacked out after blowfish sushi in a fancy Ginza sushi place, And I thought that was it. We die. But when I awake, you were holding my hand, walking the streets of Montmartre half-drunken of too much bubbles. We just saw the Moulin Rouge, you said, and I hated that no one looked like Nicole Kidman there. And then we jumped, to this magnificent place called Broadway. You love Les Mis, but I wanted to see something more cheerful so we see Wicked. I love Fiyero. But I love you more because you actually have some brains inside your head. You said you love Eponine, but you love me more because I don't have to die in your arms during the French revolution. Her fate sucks. The next morning, we were in Rio. All the beautiful beaches and girls who resemble Gisele Bundchen were so overwhelming, it feels more like a honeymoon. And you know what, when I took my sunglasses off, we were under the warm, slightly dim Tuscany sun. The children ran around making a big mess that their nannies had to clean up. And soon, our son flew to London to play football for a major club. And soon, his sister moved out to live with her girls and pursue a career as a writer. And the little one? Oh, I really can't let go of him but he really needs to go: off to the moon, in his astronaut's suit. We grew old together, my dear. We did it. We made it. We have loved and love has made of us. Let's grow even older together. We'll get there. We can do it.