What has happened to me?

This is from my past life:

Duplicitous exchanges make me doubt myself, brief lapses, better than conscious deceit. Am I reduced to filling lonely moments by searching for flattery? I will never be sure which is the chance of a lifetime. Am I still that girl or a new woman, capable, willing, & undeterred? A heart split, not in 2, but into tenses. I need to live in the now, but am obsessed with the possible futures. Eternal sunshines are not enough. At the moment, nothing could be greater than this love, the truth of it, the now of it, it’s so very nearly complete. I am confident of where it will go, but where will I go? The liar, the whore, Janus, the 2 face, all fight to come out...
I’ll never be the same, yet somehow I’ll never change.

This is now:

He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie. -Anais Nin

I love our nights of bourbon & kisses, IRA portraits, and random adventures. We’re definitely birds of a feather- he waits, fingers crossed, for tuberculosis or moustache cancer. He introduces me to a hotelier with the prettiest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man and another man who may or may not be part hyena. I throw a penny into a fountain and make my secret wish.

He seems to be a series of snapshots in my mind. Forever dressed like it’s 1890, he sits, dozing, in a rocking chair on a porch. If he had a shotgun across his lap, he could have been out of and old mob movie. I sit next to him in a room in a diner that looks like the dining car of a train (the small rectangular-ness, the dropped down hexagon ceiling, baby blue lacy curtains low around the whole room) and it all seems right. His pale face and dark hair look so lovely by the light of a movie screen. When we’re together, I can’t not look at him, and marvel that he’s mine. (Though I try not to so as to not freak him out.)

Can I be this happy and not screw it up? I find myself whistling “Cheek to Cheek” all the time.( I then roll my eyes at myself.) This goofiness of mine has even inspired sebastian velour to coin a phrase- “msd” (melissa style dorkiness). This is defined as squeaky girly squishiness over a fella. This time last year (or almost any other year for that matter) that would have been unheard of. But in keeping with my more recent honesty policy, I’m putting it all out there for the universe to see. He inspires not only passion but also absolute fidelity.

I even love the way he walks.

I’m fucked.