Never once in my short foolish life

Did I dream I’d be worthy of this.

The freeness of ended search, no more strife,

All love surrendered with bliss.

The hands that hold me never let go

They encircle me and pull me close.

As he touches me, time starts to slow,

His love is so much, grandiose.

Then when he leaves the worry returns

The fear and anxiety haunt me.

Dreams begin to fade, hope slowly burns,

Without him I am an amputee.

I know all too well this terror of the grim

I feel it every night when he goes.

I’m scared that something will happen to him,

And I’ll be left with memories and woes.

But then the next day those hands are here

They wrap around me once more.

The fear goes away, for as long as he’s near,

I’m just loved and safe and happy galore.

He loves me so easy, so freely, so well. I can't comprehend how he's able to do it. He calls me a worrier, an over-thinker. I suppose that I am, but I only worry about him. Every time he woos me with those words that pull my heart closer to his, I feel fear along with the joy. Every time he holds me, I worry what will happen if it's the last time.

I think I've watched too many movies, read too many books. I seem to look at my life as a work of fiction, the plot written and twisted for an audience distinctly separate from myself. I fear the tragic irony that so often ends these works of fiction.

We once argued over "party plates"- those dull yellow license plate coverse given to those convicted of driving under the influence. It was a stupid argument, we knew that even as we bickered. Later that night after we had parted ways, the one true love of my life went for a drink with his friend. I cried and worried all night, wringing my hands in fear. I worried that the tragic irony would come to end our story that night, in the form of a car accident at the hands of his drunk friend, or some other drunk driver late at night.

That never happened of course. Years later, our love remains and there is no evidence of a plot twist coming to ruin that.

I will try to enjoy the middle of our story for as long as I can. But I will always fear the end of the story, whether it is today, tomorrow, 30 or 60 years from now. I will never be prepared to live without him. No matter the amount of foreshadowing.

In this year of 1831

Parisians care more about a book-

Victo Hugo's new book,

Than they do about reality.

The real cathedral-

No not one with a hunchback,

La Cathédrale,

Notre-Dame de Paris.

I must show them-

I have to show them,

The virtue, the wonder,

The sacred beauty.

I'll restore Our Lady-

Create an indestructable shell.

I'll preserve Our Lady-

Protect her from any future harm.

I'll fortify Our Lady-

Ensure that her strength shall prevail.

Our delicate Lady-

The center of our city,

The heart of Paris.

No bullet will shatter her glass.

No cannon will harm her walls.

No flames will scorch her breauty.

No smoke will fill her halls.

She will live on eternal.

I will see to that.

Our indestructible Lady.