They say love is suppose to be like fireworks,
loud and overwhelming and intense.
Your heart is suppose to race and
your stomach should twist into knots.

But our love is like elevator music,
a faint fuzz in the back of a chaotic mind.
It’s innocently present,
and does not crave attention.

You have given me a chance to continue on,
to not be defined by another being.
You have seen what I need is to be happy,
but that happiness needs to be self-made.

You have taught me to love every failed test grade,
and every bad hair day.
Because although you say you love me,
you tell me it is more important that I love myself.

And if you ever think for a minute
that you have not impacted me,
remember that a writer does not thrive,
without their inspiration.