I've been enamoured with you more than half my life. I spent the other half on the pursuit of chocolate, twirling the hair on my forehead into a curl, tying my blanket around my neck and jumping off elevated surfaces in hopes that I'd fly. Preferably to more chocolate.
I'm in love with everything about you. Your laughter at a joke I made. How your dimples appear when Anne does something utterly adorable. The way my heart feels when you come in the door; sharing space with you in the same room is oddly exciting and fuzzily heartwarming all at once. When I see you walk towards me from a distance, there's this strange magnetic pull that devours the physical space between us; and when I finally put my arm around you, I can almost hear a "gloop" – more a feeling than a sound. The feeling you get when two drops of mercury finally combine.
I love you so, so much, that I feel the very fabric of my being reach out and wrap around you such that we are inextricably bound – untouched by the passing of time and the world around us.
I don't write about these feelings as much as I used to because these days I have the luxury of walking over and telling you everything. Then there are times like these, when you are fast asleep, and Anne the subconscious motion detector lies beside you on our bed.