there is a distinct difference that lies between writing love letters for someone and writing them for everyone. when one writes a love letter for a specific person, it is less grand, for true, real, can’t-live-without-you love lies in the little things:
the way you carefully comb your hair when you get out of the shower,
how you lick your fingers when you’re cooking,
when you glance sideways at me when you think i’m not watching.
love is the things that drive me crazy:
how mercilessly tidy you are,
when forget i’m in the room when you’re wrapped up in a project
how you’re unbelievably stubborn,
how you HATE losing an argument (like me.)
romance isn’t about princesses in tall castles or poisoned apples and endless slumber. it’s the way you apologize when you’re wrong, how you pull the covers up over me when i fall asleep. it’s hating when you leave in the morning and waiting at the door when you come home at night. it’s the only thing that makes sense when everything else is unfair and out of control. it’s the way no one else’s opinion matters like yours does. it’s the way you laugh at me, how you make ME laugh when i’m having a meltdown because you know i’ll feel better if i quit taking everything so goddamn seriously.
love is us on wednesday night, when we’re too tired to go out and are instead watching an episode of the office that we’ve both seen fourteen times. it’s checking the expiration date on that old bottle of tonic water because we have “a little bit of gin left."
it’s remembering how lucky i am, which is very very lucky indeed.