Some days are like this. We talk softly, pretending that someone else is in the room and is straining to hear what we're saying. We pretend that we are important enough to be heard and in truth, we are, but I suspect, only to each other. It is nice, being able to reach up and cup your face even when there's nothing special going on. Routine soothes me,makes me believe that I am a part of that part of you that closes and gives itself to the earth. Faces this small should be illegal, should be ridiculous but yours is not. I tell you,as I have many times, that it is my favorite face, the one I'd need to search for in a crowd.

I wake up to this face every day and I find something new in it from time to time. I try to kiss all these gentle discoveries.

Romantics find it easy to live in the world. They think that when you love, you'd develop a sort of super-sense. I don't have it, and neither do you. What I have is this need for you, gloriously named. And that is all.

The sun squeezes itself into our small and loving world. You say, "Let's see if they fit now." pertaining to a joke about how our hands seem awkward together. Not quite right, as if the sky has decided to fall into the sea. Imagine what that must look like, something so large and looming, landing smack dab in the middle of a riddle no one can quite understand. Our hands are incomparably incompatible together. It amazes me sometimes, how we've grown to love this fact.