I’m not good at words so my love isn’t poetry. It’s silly notes in secret places. It’s pointing out every beautiful thing I see so you can see it too. It’s waiting up hours to hear if you got home safe because I worry about you. It’s in lavender nights and making you tea and waiting for you to come with me to see movies and in telling you the parts of my day that made me happy and giving you every tiny gift I think might make you smile for a second like smooth rocks and cool leaves and it’s in letting you choose the radio station and in us together slowly healing. It’s in small quiet things but I promise. I will love you to the end of my being.

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