I wish I could make up a word.
A word that would describe you and everything you are. A word great enough to embrace our relationship, both it’s wonders and it’s faults. Maybe if I read more, maybe I could discover one, a word completely ignored, one that was not used in great love letters by great men or any other romantic poem or novel. I wish I could pronounce that word in a way that made you understand immediately, one not open for interpretation. One single word that no one else in the world had already said to you. It must have been complex, have different meanings, yet simple to say. Like you: complex, hard to figure out, but so understandable and simple to live with once you’ve been given some time. It sure took some time, to getting to know you. Almost two years to be frankly. What’s so funny is that I though I knew you the moment I met you, yet the man who lay besides me every night is a completely different one. I still admire you the way I did the two first years, when we made love like strangers. In fact I admire you more—how you’ve made feel safe and secure, yet nervous and scared to death that something will change as soon as we met the real world. As soon as the first, deep, foolish love phase would fade. It never did. It’s different, sure, cause it’s deeper. But it’s there. I can actually feel how you look at me when I cook, or when I read in bed at night. I can both see and feel your admiration. I have looked at you when you’re sleeping, trying to find this word that I could wake you with. This word that would magically describe your thoughtful heart, your stubborn mind, your childish dreams, you wonderful body and everything that you do to me. But I guess it already exists. Love.