Faults

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

1 They came to tell your faults to me,
2 They named them over one by one;
3 I laughed aloud when they were done,
4 I knew them all so well before, --
5 Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
6 Your faults had made me love you more.

i love it. i really do.

the love that lives in the letters, in the songs. the memories that only swim in our heads and stay in our hearts. and like how she says it, they always draw new inspiration. but sometimes they don't, and its not because the feeling has died, but because it has become part of you and me. we think about the once-in-a-while long phonecalls and the senseless bickering in our smses, we laugh and we cry. its the kind of friendship you know that refuses to die (not that you want it to) and even after months of not seeing each other or talking that much, you know that she'll still take your crap. and for that, and for many other things, you'd take hers too. sometimes you feel like you haven't done enough and you wanna do so much more for all that she's put in to do for you. i guess it will always be like this, it goes on.

you are thankful, you are glad that she's always around, in the heart and in the mind. always.

i am. i really am.

and i love it. i really do.