Still

The truth is, I sit and write, day and night, rewrite, un-write, throw away, start over, sit, think, write, "right?", wrong, trash. I don't know how to say what I want to say. I want it perfect. I want us perfect. But this isn't a perfect world and I am only human.

The night I met you, butterflies flew, flapped their wings and I knew. It was the story behind the eyes that drew me into you. I have never been cared for so intimately. I don't argue how we met, whether fate or serendipity. I am simply grateful and thankful for you.