Sometimes it isn't enough to say that
I love you. It isn't enough. Such a small
word cannot encompass such a big
feeling. It isn't enough to tell you that I have always admired your
strength. It isn't enough to share with you that
I lose myself in your perfect blue orbs of light, it isn't enough to tell you that you have the power to stop
time when you look at me.
I could fill this letter with roses and wine and wildflowers in June, but that is not what I am getting at. That is a more prosaic kind of love, and not even close to what I feel for you. I love you with the kind of love that doesn't have to lie to you. I can be myself in front of you, and you will accept this, and even find it endearing. I can expose myself in the purest sense of its form, and show you all those little idiosyncrasies that I hide from the rest of the world. Loving you means accepting these aspects of yourself, as well.
This letter has not nearly yet begun. This letter may never finish. This letter is almost done. If you want the signature, you will find it in my kiss. If you want the postscript, you can read it in my eyes.