“Perfect” will never be the discussion to describe our love.
Messy mornings, silent days, interrupted evenings. The moon in zenith.
Never getting the chance to say that word one longed to be said all day. In my thoughts, in my ear, but the words from my mouth never to “here”.
The touch of your hand. The crease of your smile. The inside joke. No body or mind knows the dark and clear crystal waters our souls invoke.
Fallibility. Our exquisite risk of love. Sometimes spread too thin. Oftentimes, overwhelmingly, peanut-buttery thick.
Brushing the intrepid curls from your eyes as you begin your sleep. A lump in my throat, a sign of the promise that I am yours to keep.
Soul to soul. King to Queen. Frequencies in orbit. Gathering steam.
The two became love; the love became marriage; marriage became trepidation; trepidation became an ease; an ease became strength; strength turned the 2 to 1.