This morning, with him, having coffee.

Yesterday was 891 days since your hand first found mine and we've spent 672 of those days side by side. On day 892, after spending the evening in each others arms, the credits rolled on screen. “You're my June Carter,” you said, and although I'm not nearly as strong, or as smart, or as beautiful as she was the way you look at me makes me think that maybe I have gold embedded in my skin that glows only for you.

There's a lot of things I've been wrong about in life – As a child I thought I'd save the world, as a teenager I thought I'd have it all figured out by 21 and as an adult I thought it would snow today but instead it rained. Yet on the day we met, I somehow knew you and I would intertwine. It's been 1,283,040 hours since that thought and now you are as much a part of me as the Pacific Ocean running through my veins; you exist both within me and beside me like the Atlantic air that we both breathe.

I don't know where we will be in another 891 days but I do know that I could write novels about the way you pull me closer in to you while you sleep without waking or about how your voice sounds when I overhear you saying my name from across the room. I used to laugh about how I was born with steel toes made for kicking lovers to the curb when they got too close but sometime last year I realized the steel has been replaced with a compass that always points me back to you.