There is a painting hung up on the left side of my bed.

My college roommate made it for me for my birthday, I think it was the year I turned 20. (I turn 25 in less than 3 months. I’m strangely just excited about this. I know blowing out candles on a birthday cake won’t magically make things fall into place any faster for me, but I still harbor that wish anyway. #healthyexpectations.)

The painting is a knock off of this one:




Mine looks like this:



Fun fact: the O contains part of a design I had her draw that I used to think I would tattoo on my hip along with a very sacrilegious hebrew quote. I’m thankful I took the time to think about that one. I like it much better on my wall than my skin.

I love (no pun intended) that I put the painting on the left of my bed, because that’s where my literal love sleeps. Under the letters I hung there before he even existed in my vocabulary. The painting isn’t so much my style anymore but I feel compelled to leave it in its place of honor, as if it somehow willed him to waltz into my life and change it forever in the best ways possible.