Admire

9 ; love

It's useless though, telling you every single thing I love about him because I'd be enumerating everything.

When you love someone, you love every bit of him; flaws and all. No, you don't love him despite of it; you love him and all of it, his scars and insecurities.

I love him; it's as simple as that.

The way he scrunches his nose when he hears something unpleasant, when he mocks what someone said when he doesn't agree, or even when he gets really sassy, I love that about him.

So I shout it out; I tell it to him the best way I can, and he hears it, only he doesn't. Doesn't know it's me.

He's everything I see and he looks at me, too, except he doesn't. Doesn't see me.

Even thinking about him makes me happy; knowing he's well and content. I hope the thought of me makes him smile, too, and it does, except it doesn't. Not me exactly.

He's helped me in ways I didn't think was possible; he inspired me just by being himself, and I hope he knows, only he has no idea.

He writes songs about me, he does, except it's not particularly me.

I learned almost everything about him through the years; kept it deep within the safety of my heart where no one will be able to take it away from my memory and he knows about me, too, only not really me.

It's okay; I guess.