I can’t sing you songs or play the guitar.
I can’t paint you pictures or knit you sweaters.
I’m a mediocre cook to say the least.
I’m not very good with surprises.
But I promise that you will live forever in the pages that I write. You will live in the water-logged pages from the nights I cried myself to sleep or that time I dropped my journal in the bathtub; pages with food remnants smeared on them from when I couldn’t stop the words from flowing out, even to eat; crumpled up pages from the times I gave up on everything for another hour in my bed; pages filled with doodles when I couldn’t think of what to say; pages with words scratched out because I thought of a million different ways to describe your smile; pages with pressed flowers I picked for you; pages soaked with ink from the days where I had nothing else to hold onto.
You see, my love, you will far outlive me.
You will find yourself camping in the Ozarks, Orion right above you, and the cool night air on your neck. Maybe you’ll be in a coffee shop in the Garden District, reading through your worn out copy of your favorite book. You’ll be at the market downtown every Saturday morning, a flower tucked behind your ear from the old man that sells cheese, and your arms full of fresh produce. You’ll be riding your bike at sunset by the river or lying under the summer sun in your backyard, sprawled out on a blanket with a cold Diet Coke. You’ll be at the pet store, looking at fish for hours just because I love that look in your eyes when you are excited about something.
This is how I see you.
And because of that, you are extraordinary.