I could write books about your eyes and the way you laugh.

I could paint pictures (if I was artistic enough) of your smile and your smooth skin.

I could give a lecture on the way you looked at me and held me like fine china,

but what I can't do 

is write books on the way when we talk, I feel important.

I feel as if my opinion on the matter actually means something.

I can't paint pictures of the squeezing feeling in my chest when you describe things to me.

I can't give a lecture on how it feels to be called yours.

 

Computer and phone screens get so boring so quickly,

but every time your name pops up, a light shines inside my dark mind.

I'm always stuck in the same routine, day to day.

But you, my love, always seem to pull me out of it.

Darkness hides behind my closed eyelids until I think of you.

Then suddenly,

I'm bathed in a warmth like no other.

I see flowers more vivid than anyone could ever imagine.

And the spring air feels like silk against my pale skin.

 

All the books, and the movies, and the songs.

All the cheesy poems, and tragic stories.

They all make perfect sense.

Love is an insane process.

And like you've told me once before,

you can't help who you fall in love with.

It's true.

You can't.

But if I could choose who I fell in love with,

I'd fall in love with you a thousand times over

every day

every hour

every minute

every second

of every

single

day.

And I would never regret one thing said or done.

Because to love and be loved by you

is the most romantic,

tragic,

endearing,

adrenaline rush of a ride,

that I could ever imagine. 

It's scary and exciting all at once.

And I couldn't ask for anything better.