My love for you is messy, like ink spilled on an unfinished letter, seeping into every word I try to write but smudging all meaning. It is uneven, unruly—a garden overtaken by wild vines, thorns scratching my hands even as I reach for the blooms. It doesn’t fit neatly into stanzas or sentences; it trips over itself, spills over the edges, stains the spaces between.

This love is tangled—knots of yearning, frayed by fear, stitched back together with hope. It’s unpolished and imperfect, like a song sung out of tune, but sung loudly, recklessly, because I can’t keep quiet. I can’t keep still.

It’s the chaos of a room after laughter has exploded there, after arguments have torn through, after the silence of forgiveness has settled like dust. My love is fingerprints on windows and paint splattered on the floor—evidence of care that’s never careful, a masterpiece that never quite finishes.

I want you to know this: I don’t love you neatly. I love you as the ocean loves the shore, relentless and disordered, dragging pieces of myself to you and pulling pieces of you back into me. It’s messy, yes—but it’s endless.