There are spaces between her teeth. Tell her. Your fingers are longer than hers. Tell her. Love doesn’t mean letting go, it doesn’t mean holding on. Tell her. Love is something you do in your sleep, when your body moves towards hers. Tell her. This isn’t forever, but it is all forever is: a moment holding her; her laugh. Tell her. There are trellises you will never tire of climbing, she calls them her ribs. Tell her. She doesn’t know. She could not guess, assume, or even imagine it. The way you see her. The way you see love. The way she is both. Tell her. She needs to know.


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