“I could not be more in love,” I claim with the steadfastness of an inebriated, boasting soldier with his leg on a stool in the bar, but the bravado is short-lived, for I wake up in the morning and find that I can, after all, be a little more in love today. Then, the next day rolls over, and the sky is a perfect blue and clear like the conscience of a child, and the hills in the distance are vivid like oil painstakingly smudged on canvas, and I realise I am a little more in love still. And this happens day after day, and I realise I ought to stop. It does not behove me to tell myself things that are not—that cannot be—true.
I can be more in love. I can always be more in love with you. I will be when I wake up tomorrow. And I will spend all my days losing face over this and fading into you. All my achievements—present or those waiting—wane in front of you telling me about your day. It is the greatest thing I do, for it is the greatest privilege to be the one you tell things to. And to think I was once afraid of what might happen, to think there were valleys of differences between us, how we have bridged it all, how we have overcome it all, and how we have walked over thin air to meet for a kiss. To watch you move about the house is but better than any film, any opera I will ever watch, and to watch an opera with you is, in turn, all the more magical. Days of quiet idleness, days of buzzing busyness, and all in between become better when you grace me with a smile. I would go to war with the world over a single slight on you, and, which is more, I would go to war with myself if needed, too.
I reckon I could go on and on with this and never stop, and all of what I will say will be true, and all of it will be earnest, but what is the point in making a fool of myself any longer? I am yours—heart, body and soul. That is the long and the short of it. And I will go to sleep, and I will wake up. And when I do, I will be yours a little bit more, too. And this is how it will be, forevermore.