He's candy canes and snow (sometimes snowstorms) and sunshine. I've always called him sunshine. I've always seen him as sunshine. He's globes and fruits and footballs and bruises and thunder and helicopters. And lotion. He's – everything. Sadly. Thankfully. He's become everything. He became everything somewhere in the animation of flying calendars. Or maybe he was the pilot the flew the dates.
And you are something. You are not everything, you are something, and you are something special. You're not the couch, not the rug, not the walls, the ceilings, the lights. You're a smile, you're a tear, you're the stubble, you're your words, sometimes you're my words.
He isn't a ticked box and you're not crossed out on my checklist. He goes without saying and you are something new. You are something new.
All new things turn old. But I'm praying not you. I can't have two everythings because there's only one universe (despite what you might have experienced) but I don't have to choose. I'd choose him anyway. I'd always choose him.
But, oh, how I do I love you.
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