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.