boniverotica:

Bon Iver puts on his one good suit and shines up his shoes. I wear my finest silk and a hairpin of ivory. We sneak into the abandoned church down the road and promise ourselves to each other forever. He notices a tear roll down my cheek and hands me a handkerchief embroidered with a single bluebird. Back at the cabin, we slow dance to his old 45s and drink gin fizzes and speak in hopeful, hushed tones about the future. ‘No matter what happens, you’ll always be my little radish blossom, and I your artichoke,’ he says.