You make me want to write stories about you, every thought that fills my mind and then flows through my fingertips is you. I could write about you forever, and I probably will, you know. I wish I had the right things to say, to order my thoughts in such a way that you could understand, but I have a feeling that even though I don’t, you know my mind in a way that nobody else ever could or can, and somehow you know what I’m trying to say in all of this nonsense entirely, not jut now, but always. That’s so much a part of what makes you special, you just know me. And the parts that you don’t yet? They’ll come, in my heart of hearts I know they will. There’s still so much to learn, of each other, and it’s all just stories isn’t it? Sentence by sentence, page by page? It will all come together, somehow. I’ve never believed in that until now, until you. I love you.
Because I’m still right here, even though you don’t need me anymore. I guess I hope that some day that will change again, and you might, even just a little bit. I couldn’t walk away if I tried and I hope you never make me.
Because I don’t love you for the things you did, not entirely, I love you for who you are. Under the surface of everything that is good, bad, ugly and in between, I see you and you are beautiful to me, your heart, your mind, your soul, your entire being; and that, my darling, is what you don’t understand. I see you. I’ve always seen you.
Because I can think of nothing more that I want or need but to sleep beside you, always. Just sleep, or if not sleep, just be there, near you, listening to you breathe while you sleep, hearing your heart beat, feeling your chest rise and fall. Being near and part of your existence.