After a bottle of wine I like to confess things to my husband.
I like to tell him of how I felt when I first laid eyes on his face;
how my heart raced, how my eyes teared up, how I forgot to breathe.
I like to tell him how I didn’t want to believe that he existed
because then it would mean I live surreal.
Even now, I feel shy putting this down from my fingertips.
The same fingertips that have traced every inch of his body.
The same fingertips that he’s kissed when I burn them on dinner.
The same fingertips that smooth out his blankets when I make the bed.
The same fingertips that boop his nose to see if it still works. (It does.)
I like to tell him how I’d follow or lead or walk beside him anywhere.
I like to tell him that he’s the funniest man I know,
that he leaves me breathless with laughter and breathless with love.
I like to tell him with great earnestness that he brought me to life
even though I thought I already was, but not in this way. Not in this time.
I would still be me without him, but not the same me I am now.
I’m a better human with him nearby. I’m able to freely explore the world.
After a bottle of wine, I like to confess to my husband; my always, truly.