No, I don't love her in the conventional sense.

I love her as an artist.

I love her with the profound human greatness of hope and all the beautiful qualities of humanity I find redeemed within the motions of her lips when she sings. I love her by the ocean, by city streets, drunk under stars, with no context. Just as every place is contaminated with memory, every place is filled with possibilities of her presence. I love her with the experience of an old soul and with the passion of youth. There is no reason behind it, yet it is full of purpose. I love her mouth, not because I want to kiss it, but because it is a mouth that embodies all the things that speak violently. She is a piece of the universe with irrevocable flaws that I came to understand and unspeakable beauty that I came to admire. I love her in my sketch book, I love the flicker of emotion in eyes, I love her on painted window panes and in the darkness of night.

I love her for the sake of loving her. I don't love with expectation of my affection to be returned. And from the realization of loving her, I have come to this conclusion;

I love her purely, unconditionally, and truthfully.

We go back and forth
We're down south then we're up north
My scale's all out of wack
Please don't leave, please come back?

Don't you know balance is what I need most?
You had my heart, it's only host
I love you so much, won't you give me a dose?
With you as mine I'd have all reason to boast

I adore you so and I know I'm no good with words
But I'll try and do better if you give me another turn
When it get's too hot and they're afraid to burn
They fly up north and never miss a turn
When they get too cold and miss the sun
Back down south is where they return
With you I am just like the birds
Only my missing you is much more stern

New year.
New heartbreaks.
New surprises.
New mistakes.
New disappointments.
New feelings.
New horrors.
New people.
New poems.

When he asks you to write about him, remind him that you are not that kind of poet. When he asks you to describe his eyes, stop yourself from telling him how bright they are and how they remind you of the stars you stare at in the late night. Do not tell him they are brighter than any of those stars and while they may not light up the whole sky, they sure as hell light up your heart. Instead, smile and tell him that they are just blue – nothing is very special about them. He will ask you why your hands and lips tremble when you're with him, but you mustn't explain how fast your heart beats when he looks at you, or how sometimes you swear your lungs fill up with smoke when you hear him laugh soundly because of something you said. You shouldn't write about him, because you're not the kind of girl that writes about someone who could be here one day, and easily gone the next.