I love you.
I think I've said it before, but I haven't given you any reasons. So here it goes.
I love your smile.
It's one of the first things I noticed about you—it's sort of dusty, like it's seen better days, but you still love this one.
I love the way you light up.
Especially when you talk about the things you love, they way your eyes sparkle and you go one too long, but that's okay too, because I love your voice.
It's not perfectly smooth, sometimes you break off or miss a note and, try as you might, you can't sing. But somehow it's still the best sound I've ever heard.
I love your eyes.
I don't know exactly what color they are, but they look like sunshine and dust and ocean, and they feel like home.
I love the way you read.
Every book you can get your hands on, running your fingers across bruised binding and smelling dog-eared pages. The way you get a focused look in your eyes, like you're in some other world.
I love the way you smell.
I can't exactly describe it, but it's sorta like spring rain and paint.
I love the way you paint.
Everything beautiful and wonderful you see. Pictures of landscapes and stories, things you bring to life with nothing.
And I just love you, for no apparent reason whatsoever.