You're a warm sun in the cool of evening and I don't know how to tell you I love you except for in the small ways you keep me breathing.

I think constantly about whether I'm happy dating you, and it's not your fault I'm uncertain about loneliness, because you didn't make me question myself for a year and a bit.

You're not perfect, you leave your coffee mugs around and have odd habits I'm not used to.

But you don't make me feel bad for not being vegetarian and you are so gentle and you tell me you have butterflies for me and that's not something X did.

You welcome my mess of fabric and paint and uncertain touch and you make me think about accepting affection and I'm tearing up writing this.

I'm sorry I haven't figured myself out but I'm so glad you're along for the ride