Love letter

It’s your skin you see, the sweetness of it, the unique smell of it. It’s your skin at the nape of your neck, it’s the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes, it’s your laughter when you’re amused, it’s your furrowed brow when you’re pensive.
It’s the three beauty marks that form a triangle on your shoulder, it’s how I discovered your body, how I made it my country, my territory, mapping each vein, each tensed muscle with the tip of my finger.
It’s the cliches thoughts that I find myself having even though I promised myself never to become one of “those” women, you know who I mean, the ones who can’t form a sentence without mentioning the subject of their love.
It’s the incredible joy of being next to you, I guess that’s what they mean by love, I guess that’s what they mean by passion, I guess that’s what they mean by devotion.
It’s never knowing what comes next but knowing you’ll be there, it’s not being so afraid of the future anymore, it’s being able to think something great will be around the corner, it’s being cheesy and not giving a damn.
It’s being slightly unhinged and not scaring you with my quirks, it’s an Edith Piaf song, simple and efficient, straight to the point, il est entre dans mon coeur une etoile de bonheur, it’s seeing the world a little differently since you’re in it.
It’s feeling my heart beating, each pulsation an hymn to glorious life, a glorious life where you’ll be in.
It’s the couple of music notes on an ever imperfect partition, making it the most perfect symphony, one only us can understand, and slowly, in rhythm, we dance to it, our feet synchronized, our breathing unified.
It’s a tap of on my door, it’s a stomping of my soul, it’s overpowering and overbearing.
It’s simple, really, that thing we call love.

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