Things That I Love About You: Part II

You smell like everything familiar. You smell like soap, sunshine, the outdoors, strength, comfort. When I'm away from you, I catch whiffs of you at random... your smell seems to eminate from everything. From the seat cushions, from my hair, from the book I'm reading, from my very skin. You're everywhere, even when you're not.

You love breakfast just as much as I do. And big, hefty, lumberjack breakfasts. Bacon and homefries? Anyone?

You, my darling, have the innate ability to make even the most mundane person feel entertaining and charming. You listen, but actively, with ears perked, with an interested expression, leaning forward. You ask questions. You listen not because you feel you should, but because you actually care. This is a gift. I appreciate you for caring. For listening. For wanting to know more, always. For always making me feel as if what I have to say is not only valid, not only right, but more importantly... essential.

Your skin. It's soft. It's smooth. It smells clean, and it's warm. In fewer words... perfect.

The freckle right under your hairline, on the back of the neck. Everything leads me there. It's my nexus, my lodestar. The soft, gentle curve of your beautiful neck points right to it. And it will never be anyone else's. It's my claim on you, right there, back there, small, hidden... mine.

You love to read. Darling, this is essential. You love books, love everything about books, love quirky books, charming books, deep books, the books that make you weep, laugh out loud. Regardless of what genre, you're game. And I can always count on good literature for Christmas.

Those goddam ridiculous glasses you picked up during that hiking trip. 'Nuff said.

You make me laugh. I will grow old with you, laughing, laughing, laughing.

Things That I Love About You: Part I

You cannot sing, but you occasionally forget this small fact and croon softly to whatever song is playing. I love that you do this in moments of forgetfulness, because it means that you are at ease in front of me... even if it does sound absolutely painful.

You have an uncanny ability to make sweet, strong coffee every. single. time. I could drink your coffee for the rest of my life.

Your laugh lines. The most perfect part of your face (that is, they might have to wrestle with your smile, your delicious freckles, your blue eyes, your long lashes, et cetera et cetera, to be continued). But I told you once that if I get to your age and have laugh lines like yours, I will have lived a most successful life. No matter how much you’ve struggled in your years, I also know that you’ve laughed often.

You dress like a champion. You are the handsomest thing in a sweater vest since Clark Gable.

Your profile in the morning is perfect. You have a lovely sculpted chin, a strong nose, a small, soft smile. The corners of your mouth turn up. Mostly, in the morning, it’s the expression of absolute calm on your face, a sort of contentedness that I don't see as much when you're awake.

You have an absolutely charming laugh. It’s the most wonderful chuckle, and it always elicits a grin from me and anyone else who's lucky enough to hear it.

Your arms, so deceptively strong, are the most comforting things in the world. When you hold me, everything that I am afraid of and everything that hurts me feels slightly less acid, less biting. Your arms are strong and they are warm and they encircle me and then, I’m protected. I’m yours.

Conversations At Night: Part I

I love you so much.

What is it like when you're with me?

My heart... sings when I'm with you. It feels... full again.

And when I'm not with you?

I smell you everywhere.

I'm worried that you're going to resent me.

You gave me my life back. There's no room for resentment. Only gratitude.

(pause)

I bought you blueberries. For breakfast.

Thank you.
For everything.

I know.

The Love Letter: Part I

In the morning, we are perfect.

That’s how a love letter should begin.

In the morning, you and I are everything. We’re the world in its entirety. Everything that is not us is simply excessive. The whole world is this: my bed, warm with our bodies. Small lights that show up doubly in the recesses of your sleepy eyes. Music that is contrived, perhaps, but does it matter? There is precious little that can ruin these moments before the world wakes up, when it’s just you and I together, limbs tangled, my arms under the nape of your neck that I know so well, your cheek against my shoulder. I can feel your breath against the hollow of my throat. I feel your lips turn up when you smile. I lose little pieces of myself to you then, and in a small way, you become a part of me. You don’t have to speak, because what would you say? There’s nothing to say. And yet, we talk sometimes, and then there’s gentle laughter that rocks the bed, smiles that crinkle the corners of our eyes, dimples deepening in the corners of our cheeks. The light changes every few minutes, shifting, and when the room changes from dark blue to the paleness of day, I know that our time is limited. But then again, I have the rest of that morning, and of the morning after, and every day that we choose to begin together until forever. There is no end to this. There is no end to us. Which is why it’s never as difficult as it should be to leave you lying there, smelling of warmth and soap and familiarity. You are mine. You are my love.

In the morning, we are perfect.