Long, handwritten letters that you wrote with an old dip pen, that is what I like.
Not lines scribbled on the computer screen, where I can’t see your soul or feel your essence.
A single daisy that you picked from a garden, because it made you think of me, that is what I like.
Not a huge bouquet of neatly wrapped flowers, too colorful and smelling of lost identity.
The simple thrill of our hands intertwined as we watch the waves crash on the shore, that is what I like.
Not a dinner at an expensive restaurant where we both feel out of place and can’t talk with our hearts or feel with our souls.
The sound of your voice saying my name, filled to the brim with love, that is what I like.
Not a ticket to a concert of some band, where I won’t be able to hear your words, drowned out by the sound of a thousand beating hearts.
The innocent smile on your face as you see me, or hear my voice, that is what I like.
Not a movie, where we will be too involved with the plot to spare time to care about us.
So, I beg you, keep those grand gestures for someone who thinks they’re all that matters.
And to me, and this is all I ask, to me, please give the little things that construct the fabric of life.