My english teacher told me to write what I really meant to say, so I decided to go about my writing more honestly. I tried to write like a lover would instead of how a poet would. I wrote about how your eyes are cerulean, and that when you laugh, your corneas burst. And I wrote about how you lose track of what you're doing very easily and how I still feel your touch on me hours after you're gone. And I wrote about how you walk like you're on a tightrope which always throws me off because in many ways you're clumsy. I wrote about how it's almost impossible to describe how I feel about you without using caps and how you're so much more than an MLA formatted essay. And you're more than a stamped apology letter, and you're more than a poem to add to my collection. You're more like a novel, you fill the margins with footnotes and I never want to put you down. I want to re-read you until the pages start to fall out and most of them will be dog eared and highlighted, I'm sorry I just love everything about you and I'm also sorry that I've never been exactly what you wanted but please remember that I breathe you in every single day. I fall asleep to the sound of your voice even if I haven't heard it in days and I hear a song and want to show you it. I can feel how good of a person you are because you haven't stopped knocking the wind out of me since we first met. I've always been told that it takes just a spark to light a wildfire. Is that true? I hope so. If it is, then we're going to be set ablaze. Tsunamis roar in your eyes and nobody's dared to tell you to calm yourself. I think it'd be a privilege to drown in your eyes and feel the weight of your insecurites. Have you ever kissed somebody that made you taste colors? Have you ever hugged the sun or told the moon all your secrets? I look at you and I've done all three. But I want to know what the sunset looks like when you're in love with me. Are you in love with me? Is that even possible? I've found the valleys of your spine and studied your cheekbones to make sure they weren't porcelain. I want to hear your voice crack when you speak to me but only because when your voice is cracked I can fill the cracks with mine and that's my definition of a conversation. Everything points towards you and I can't help but love you. I think this is my definition of love. I chose you out of everybody, that's love, right? No, I didn't choose you. I didn't get to choose. You don't get to choose who you love. That's what I've always been told. Yes, this is love. I love you.