I Know You of Old
Sometimes I forget how much I love you. I remind myself of your not-so-good habits, or you say something stupid, and chalk you up as an object of my perpetual infatuation. It lasts for a few days, sometimes two weeks though not much longer. But then I remember the wonderful things you have said and continue to say, or the way you make me laugh, or the way I make you laugh, or the way you look in a suit. And I am overwhelmed. I daydream about visiting you, or about you visiting me. We drink in the evenings and watch movies in the mornings. We walk around town and look in every antique shop for additions to your collection. You tell me about the bad times, and I tell you about the things you said that first made me fall in love with you. We watch every version of Much Ado About Nothing, and I sigh heavily after every line that makes me believe that you are my Benedick.