to my love

I noticed it in your laugh. The way the sound of it makes my eyes blink a little faster, trying to make sense of life itself. It's a reality-altering kind of sound, the kind that could wake you straight from a dream. (Maybe it is the dream) (I have always felt at home when I dream, and your laugh is more home to me than walls and a bed could ever dream of being.)

Every morning I feel an empty spot beside me. I feel the same absence in between my fingers. It's a sort of haunting, both there and not in the same space. I know that you have never touched these places, but they are reserved. They are yours. 

I've never been more in love with rough edges. The ways you don't quite fit in. The ways you are so much like me. (You wear that jaded expression better than anyone, and that occasionally callous tongue of yours is one I'd love to become familiar with.)

It's the way you look at me. The way your voice softens when you tell me you love me. There is something lying somewhere in these 1500 miles that makes every bit of sense to only us. We are a living sonnet, a wondrous success story of people asking themselves how to find love and keep it alive. We are a prime example of two halves of a whole, brought together by something beyond us, as we have been in other lives, other bodies. You are my partner in crime, my puzzle piece, and you have been for years, before you had this name and before I had this face. Years we didn't live but conquered, hand-in-hand, teaching people a thing or two about destiny, I'm sure. Something has always brought us back.

My love, you're a theorist. Fascinated with ideas others failed to execute, lover of knowledge and changing lives. You love glass vials, experiments, observations, manipulation of everything we think true, and your yearning knows no bounds. You'll probably never know, though, that even with the biology and the schooling and the achievement of your dreams, the life you'll have changed most, is mine.