You asked me, “what is real;” And I think it’s us and it’s when the moment I realised that you had become first nature to me, In the softest way, when the wind blew and you became my shield from the storms; Friend Lover and protector; lifetime mates. And the endless source of comfort and giving; formless; epic beauty, against the mossy heaths of Cymru.
My daffodil, the music in the folk song; elevating and elevating that I cannot compare your love for me to anything else. I think Real is a feeling; and you just know. Through the music, through the stories of your mind. Consenting, accepting, acting on hope of creating something that cannot be defined.
Your very nature to me is the most tender way: of blending into the quill ink deep within the surface of the paper; when the ink gently kisses hand written love letters; it’s when they become more than mere words written on a page and when there are moments of your beautiful thoughts; when it becomes poetry.
With such sweetness written in every line; it’s when your words make me worthy to love; making me better than I am…
and when you say; “I love you.