I love her.

There’s not really any other way to put it.

My heart skips a beat at the mention of her name.
I linger in the hallways, hoping to see her.
If thinking of her, her sweet cotton scent appears out of no where,
Enlivening, yet calming me at the very same time.

I love the way she talks.
I love the way she smiles.
I love the wrinkles that line her face.
I love how they seem to disappear whenever she laughs.

I love how she talks to me, and listens like I deserve to be listened to.
She makes me feel important, even when I know I’m not.

I can say anything to her.
I want to say everything to her.
I want to sit and talk with her for hours.

She has experienced the world.
I have experienced the world.
Two utterly different worlds,
They meet through two people,
One young, one old.

She knows what I’ve been through.
People like her are the cause of my pain.
They speak nonchalantly of how love can stop suddenly.
They say it’s never found again.

I ignore her mistakes as she points out my own.
I love her too much.

I bite my tongue.
I hide my feelings.
She’s much too busy for them.

I love.
I love how her discerning blue eyes tear me apart piece by piece.

I cry.
She holds me as I do.

I hurt.
She cries softly, bearing me tighter to her own self.

We sing.
And when we do, my heart sets aflutter.

She’ll never understand.
No one will.

This love isn’t lover to lover.
This love isn’t mother to daughter.

She is flawed perfection,
And I am perfected flaws.

I love, and I love her.