An awkward stance, a lopsided walk
leaning to the left-hand side,
most likely a result of supporting a tall and lanky silhouette.
The heftiness of your clumsy steps become louder and louder as you come closer,
and as your head tilts, and your shoulders relax,
I see the reflection of my smitten face in your glasses.

Your hair, ***** blond,
and often resembling a birds nest,
has been ruffled just the way I like it.

Your tired wee eyes,
a bi-product of your constant desire (?) to read,
is my favourite sight to see.

Your baggy jumper
hangs off your skinny frame,
and carries the smell of you.
A hint of  Calvin Klein, some musk,
and just the smallest bit of damp (a small chuckle)
but I'd have it no other way.

That smell, jumper, hair, and lopsided walk,
they're safety.
Especially those eyes,
those huge, soft eyes.
They're home for me now.

So make a cup of tea,
and pull up a chair,
because if home be where I lay my hat,
I have laid mine quite certainly.

There's something to be said in the way you gently squeeze my hand when I'm upset.
Even when I may not know why.
Or how you hold my gaze.
You try to find my ****** jokes funny,
even if you're unable to hide just how bad they are.

You're a religion,
a dogma,
a deity that I completely, utterly worship.

No you don't always take the pain away,
nor do you magically make it all okay.
But you make it all bearable;
you've become the reason to try.

And like Gatsby and the green light,
wishing, hoping for Daisy to notice,
I hold out a green light to you.

Not only so you can see me,
but it is a reminder, a testament,
of how I wholly, entirely and unconditionally adore you.