It’s the way he teaches me how to paint a wall, paint criss-crossing and flecking and leaping its way to completion.
It’s the way we curl into each other, my legs folded in his, his neck on my shoulder, hair and freckles and blue eyes streaming light everywhere.
It’s the way I marvel at how easy it is, for him to be him and for me to be me and us to be we.
It’s the way he laughs, loud and open, so strong I can hear it even when he’s not there.
It’s the way we walk sometimes, hips clanging and feet jumping from one moment to the next.
It’s the way I wonder what it will be like to say “I love you,” the words colliding in my head, but not quite ready to leave my lips.
It’s the way he holds me in his arms as I watch the fading light caress my walls, my floor, the corner of the picture hanging above my desk.
It’s the way we watch the hilly white clouds, the lone telephone pole our placeholder against the transitory fluffiness of the sky.
It’s the way I feel with him, each little moment adding up to overwhelming, incontrovertible evidence that this is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
