You occupy so much of my brain that there’s nowhere to think. I had to scribble my thoughts down on paper, messy doodles of our initials, our adopted children— 

Naria if a daughter, Nikolai if a son. They’d have your talented hands and juvenile grin, but maybe they’ll have the same dark hair like me, the kind you like running your fingers through. 

You leave me a broken record, I want to tell you how much I want you, not because I’m afraid you’ll forget, but because I like to imagine that I flash between your eyes every time someone talks about their girlfriend. And that I’m clearly so much better than theirs, because I’m yours.

There’s nothing but void when my head hits the pillow and when the sun kisses my face through the tight blinds— 

But you make me believe I can dream, that I can dream about anything and everything because you believe in me

When we talk, your voice is just like honey,

Honey, kiss me. Please ask, please ask everyday.

You’re not the man my parents would want me to marry

In fact, you check off none of their best wishes;

Romance is not your forte. You’d forget my birthday and scramble to grab the cake right before the bakery closes. 

    But I’d see the guilt on your face, your embrace of an apology as much as a gift.

Silent is not your name, your laughter is enough to cause an earthquake, but baby it’s natural that I’m a disaster for you—

You want to study philosophy and not cardiothoracic surgeon, fixing people’s hearts; 

But I’ve never wanted a criminal more badly than you. You didn’t listen when I begged you not to steal my heart. My mistake for meeting the best person ever, I guess. 

You’re next sin: you’re damn graceless, you trip over your own feet and it’s infectious.

How could I not stumble when I realize I’m so into a ditzy thief who overthinks everything?

You’re nothing that I’ve wanted. You monster, what are you doing to me?

I think my parents wanted me to marry a doctor, who could treat me at a moment’s notice. But I know I want to fall in love.

I want to fall in love not with the man who’ll pay his affection in a big house and a closet of the finest outfits, but the idiot who has my heart, my mind, my hands in their palms, the idiot who’ll use the same foul-mouthed lips to remind me that I’m worth something.

Oh yeah, one last thing. You’re not a man my parents think is worth marrying. It’s true, you’re nothing that they want. But you're a wife worth considering.