Mediocre Magic

Our love is not a fairytale.

It’s a blending of humans and habits and heartbreak and happiness.

It’s a winding road of a few narrowly avoided landslides, memorable scenery, and occasional pot holes.

It’s not princes or princesses or well-behaved subjects.

It’s screaming children and unruly dreams.

It is heavy metal mixed with Mozart.

It is head banging while slow dancing.

It’s dirty work boots and worn-out jeans and a sink full of dishes and a leaky roof that we will get around to eventually.

It’s a dream built with mismatched parts and broken pieces.

It’s a destination stumbled upon after tripping down all of the paths less traveled and pushing past dead ends and road blocks.

It’s arriving, even if late and covered in mud and blood and weariness.

It’s singing the wrong lyrics to a forgotten tune.

It’s tiptoeing around moods or sleeping giants because no one wants to be the troll lurking under the bridges we’ve built to hold ourselves together.

It’s a tear wiped away when the days feel too long and the hurt feels too raw.

It’s a quiet storm raging with patience.

It’s a wave of contentment crashing over conquest.

It’s the gratitude in grief and the admiration in agony.

It’s the stoic stare from across the room that keeps us standing when the walls are caving in.

It's squeaking hinges and tattered ball gowns and missing car keys.

It’s a choice to be silent when someone else needs a voice.

It’s the flickering light of a short fuse and the warped reflection in a dirty mirror.

Our love is not a fairytale.

Fairytales are made for happy endings.

They begin with tragedy just to defeat it’s intent and live happily ever after.

Our love is accidental destiny. It’s fortuitous fate. It’s magical mediocrity.

It’s everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve learned, and everything we’ve loved, culminating at the beginning.

Our love isn’t happily ever after.

It’s us.

As we ever were.

As we ever will be.