This weekend has been perfect. 36 hours of you. Last night you said you didn't want things to change. If wishing could alter time, we would have altered it long ago, remaining as we are now, in love, in peace, in comfort, in each other's care. I was serious when I said that I wanted to marry you, as serious as a heart can get. I was serious when I said that I love you, forever. Because I have, I do, and I will. Sleeping in your arms is the best thing life has given me. Feeling the soothing rise and fall of you chest as you breathe, listening to your heart, smelling your intoxicating sweet breathe, all things I'm rushing to memorize. Life has taken on a strange preparation. My only want is to burn everything about you, us, into my memory. Every thought, sound, taste, touch, and smell. Everything you. Everything I can take with me when you're gone.

I know the time is drawing closer, and I still can't imagine how I am going to make it. How will I get up the day after and care that the rest of the world keeps spinning when mine has been thrown off of its axis? It's as if my future is about to hit a wall, and what lies beyond it is completely inconsequential. Life becomes colorless after that day, awash in gray.