I love our love, babygirl.
If I loved you less, then I might be able to talk about it more
— George Knightley to Emma Woodhouse in Jane Austen’s Emma.
I love our love.
I say this because I lack the words to properly define or explain it.
Most days, it feels complete, whole and true whenever we are together or apart. Maybe there is a madness to it. Maybe there is a lack of reason which makes our love feel flawless. Maybe it is you, the very existence of you and how I can never seem to get enough. Maybe you are a never-ending well that I am blessed to drink from — over and over.
I love our love
When we intertwine our fingers, rub noses together and say those three words that carry more weight than the world on the shoulders of Atlas. The first time I said those three inestimable words to you, a heavy cloud left my chest. I had no premonitions or prophecies or divinations of what the future held for us . All I had was hope. Hope that you were the one I wanted. Hope that I was going to do my best and make this love work. When I said it to you, you had the right to hold back your love. Yet, you chose not to. You chose to love me too.
I love our love
For it is my favourite. You are my favourite. You are my favorite pair of eyes to look into. My favourite person to smile to. My favourite person to spend a Sunday with. My favorite sunset and sunrise. My favorite moonshine. My favourite person to walk with and talk about everything and anything. Your hands are my favorite things to hold and your heart is my favourite place to hide when I cannot take on the world on some terrible days.
On bad days, when all around us is apathetic and filled with gloom while we wonder if we will ever survive the winter, please remember that this love is worth fighting for and i will fight to preserve its fire with you.
With you — In the words of Viola de Lesseps (From the movie, Shakespeare in Love), as she daydreamed of a modest theatric in William Shakespeare —
I look forward to a love that overthrows life; unbiddable, ungovernable — like a riot in the heart, and nothing to be done, come ruin or rapture. Love — like there has never been in a play.
Happy Birthday. I love you.
