To the boy who'll be my other half, my destiny, my flesh,

I don't know if your jaw bones are sharp or if your lips are prettier than mine, but she knows. And she has memorized you more than she has memorized the stops and turns of her bus ride home. And you have memorized her as well; in fact you're more familiar with her anatomy than you are familiar with yours - her moles like a star map, her scars and how she got them, (I bet she had one on her knee from a bike accident when she was nine or ten, but I could be wrong; you know her more than you know your childhood and I'm just guessing), the wrinkles on her elbow, the lines of her palms, the slight bend of her fingers, the cracks on her lips, the cracks on the soles of her feet - if you could draw her you would and the details would be unimaginably accurate the great realists of the Renaissance will weep in their graves in shame.

And right now, you're thinking the same. You're thinking, yes you could draw her and she'll like it and maybe she'll love you more for it. And you cradle that thought as you bury your nose in her neck, drowning yourself in her scent as the rhythm of her heartbeat, in perfect synchrony with yours, fills your head. And she caresses your hair, careful enough not to miss a sensation. She hums your favorite song, and asks you, "Do you love me?" You let out a sweet chuckle as you lift your face, then you tuck her hair behind her ear, and rest your hand on her cheeks. You gaze at each other's eyes as if you don't have enough time. And then slowly, gently, you press your lips against her forehead, her eyelids, her lips.

And I wish that in the marriage of your mouths, you understand that her breath that you breathe and everything between your souls, your bodies are nothing but temporary.

With love, 

the girl who'll be your other half, your destiny, your flesh