I do not love you because you are funny,
or kind.
Or because you're beautiful.
It's not because when we first met you were reading Virginia Wolf,
and when you looked at me
I saw emerald and amber in your eyes.
Your hands are like pebbles,
worn smooth by the sea,
but that is not why I love you.
My heart doesn't skip at the thought of you
because you kiss the back of my neck
just before sleep
takes me.
Not even because you
make the best brownies
ever.
I love you
because you,
are you.
And I am me.