first and foremost,
I am unable,
to speak what I want to say.
like every writer,
I turn to words.
I try to emote without speaking,
paint my emotions across the page with ink.
When I write of you,
I find those splotches of ink,
usually so vibrant,
I can’t find the words to tell you what you mean to me.
the ink forms letters,
and I can arrange them into shapes,
I have never known a man as beautiful as you.
I have never been so supported,
and so loved.
You love all of me,
every little piece,
even the parts of me that I don’t love completely.
You see me for a beautiful human being.
Seeing myself through your eyes has shown me that I am beautiful.
I yearned for love,
honest and pure love.
You have given me these gifts,
and I am so grateful for you.
I have tried,
over hundreds of pages,
to show you,
and stories what you mean to me.
And they all fall short of the gift that you are.
When I speak,
I try to tell you every emotion,
that I have tried to tell you through ink,
over so many pages,
so many words.
When I speak instead of writing,
I can only get out a few words.
There are only three of them,
but I hope they are enough.
with every fibre of my being:
I love you.