What I Mean When I Say I Love You

I mean I memorized the sound of your breathing when you're almost asleep— that slow, surrendered rhythm that tells me you feel safe enough to stop guarding whatever you guard all day. I mean I will bring you water without being asked. I will remember the name of your childhood dog and the song that makes you cry and the exact way you like your eggs, which is different on Saturdays. I mean I have seen the version of you that you don't show the world— the tired one, the scared one, the one who asks "am I enough?" at 2 AM when you think I'm sleeping— and my answer is the same every time: more than. When I say I love you, I mean I choose this. Not the butterflies— those come and go. I choose the ordinary days. The grocery runs. The arguments about the thermostat. The silences that don't need filling. I mean you are the person I want to bore with my day— every tedious detail— because somehow when I tell you, the day matters more than when I lived it. I mean I am not going anywhere. Not when it's hard. Not when it's boring. Not when you forget to text back or leave your shoes in the hallway again for the four hundredth time. I love you means: you are my favorite inconvenience. My chosen chaos. The only person whose snoring I have decided to find charming for the rest of my life. And I mean it. All of it. Every stupid, beautiful syllable.