Your love understands me to my deepest core, as if you painted me by your own hand. It’s elastic, forgiving, assured. You seek not to change any detail, any habit; you’re generous with the warmth of your sun, lighting the path not which you chose for me to follow, but to simply carry the lantern beside me as I find my own way home.
If soul mates do not exist, isn’t it the most beautiful, wonderful coincidence that we have the privilege of loving each other this way? To have a hand to hold, a bed to share, peace to relish in? Marriage feels too mortal, paper thin; exchange rings to prove our love? No, your fingers curling around mine in the darkness of 3am is the only proof I need to know what is true.