Darling, I'm not the same person I was when I awoke this morning. I don't know what it was, but I no longer want those things I so desperately settled for the night before yesterday. Instead, I want your chiseled knees bumping into mine underneath the table, and your morning breath. I want your eye lids to only close halfway when you look at me. I want your broken fountain pens and your empty journals. I want your temper tantrums and your bitter comments and your cold cup of tea. I want your jar of strawberry jam to be my jar of strawberry jam.
Our strawberry jam.
And darling, I'll take your soaking silence over your finger tips any day.
I just want to be able to tell you that your eyes match the mountains and all the uncharted seas. That the lights on the hillside are all yours to keep, and that the clocks that think they're needed don't count down the time for you.
Darling, you make me wonder why hearts aren't shaped like hearts, and why that matters to me so much. You're peaches and red gingham table cloths and daffodils. You're wind chimes in June. You're Saturday's sunrise. You're violins.
And I love you, just because.
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