I will love the way your flannels feel against my summer skin, hiding me from the window’s soft breeze
The way I gently pull your glasses from where they’ve slipped on the bridge of your nose, after you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa to the drone of NPR
The way you bring me coffee in bed on lazy Sundays, just enough cream to turn it the color of my childhood room’s walls
How I will make dinner with you, sipping white wine and kissing by the counter
Our little breakfast table with the yellow cotton cover, and the mason jar of wildflowers I refuse to let go stale
Our bookshelf full of creaky bookshop treasures
The way you will dip me upside down, Dirty Dancing style, as you kiss me hello after work
How you won’t mind my incessant singing as if no one can hear
I will love the sunlight bathing our window seat in the bedroom
The old record player’s putter when the vinyl is through
Our trips to the market and the bouquet you slip into the basket while I’m counting coupons
The way our dog’s feet will pad softly across our aching wooden floors
The box of old letters in our dresser drawer, from times both oceans and little living rooms apart
The mingling of our handwriting on our grocery list by the fridge
How you still send me a postcard every time you travel
The way I will pull all of the covers to my side every night in my sleep, but how you will forgive me time and time again
I will love kissing your shoulders, running my lips over the freckles sprinkled on the nape of your neck
Our bathtub with the clawed feet and my organic lilac soap that you refuse to admit you use
My Hunter boots towering over your loafers beside the door
The tree house we’ll build together in the old oak tree and the nights we’ll spend there, counting falling stars
I will love Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong—dancing barefoot across the kitchen, my cheek to your shoulder
The farmer’s stand on the corner of the street, and the carton of strawberries that won’t make it the walk home
Christmastime strolling the avenues with breathy snow drifts settling in our hair, Vince Guaraldi flavoring every moment and our little tree with the crooked star
The chalkboard by the door where I’ll leave you sweet thoughts
Our jar of pennies for a rainy day
The sound your keys make in the door when you return home
The notes you slip into my work-bag while I’m in the shower
I will love the quiet rain stuttering against the bedroom window on soft nights, while jazz pours from the speakers in the corner
The whistle of the kettle, two cups waiting nearby
The way you drift off with a book draped across your chest
Our collection of photographs, scattered across every surface in mismatched frames
How your beard will turn my chin rosy, but I’ll keep on kissing you
Pressing our palms together and watching your fingers fold over mine
I will love the sweet strum of your guitar from the den as I sit down to write
The way your eyes light up when you laugh
The way I light up when you laugh
Our wicker basket of laundry after doing the wash, our linens tangled together
The bouquet of dried lavender from the fields near our home, hung over the stove
The night in the middle of winter when we built a castle of quilts and cushions
My grandfather’s apron that I’ll wear as I cook, and your banter of domesticity that will earn you a light-hearted swing from the wooden spoon in my hand
My little green seedlings growing by our open window, waiting to be planted in the window box on the balcony
I will love the days when we get into the car with a map, a collection of music, and a camera—setting off with an undetermined location in mind
I will,
love,
You.