My darling man, born many Novembers ago. The earth has spun on its axis countless tides since you've been mine. Yet, after all this time, here I am still taking mental pictures of you —admiring as if you were brand new.
It's not fair how much with you I lose all control.
The kind of man authors write books about. Your simple existence creates within the depths of me an uproar, fanning a dwindling fire that from near-to-ashes you have restored. You fit into the gaps in me I never knew existed, making me so glad that when I resisted you persisted.
My darling man, I never knew how much I could adore, I never imagined how much I could feel more, oh how I hope that you will always call me yours.