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You don’t love me.

You don’t love me because I’m the only one who understands you. I’m sure there are many others who do.
Not even because I’m pretty. Beauty surrounds you every day.
Certainly not because of my temper. I lose it so very often.
Not at all for the way I cook. I’m such a disaster beyond sweet treats.
You don’t love me for the way I think. Remember the many times I told you exactly what was on my mind? Remember the cold shower?
Not ever did I let you draw a frown on my face, although you had so many chances to show your artistic skills. So that’s not it.

That’s not why you love me.

Your stories are my favorite magazines and I like to read the entire page before I turn it. Most people just like that you’re glossy and expensive.
I find my reflection in your eyes, but only after I create my own image. You’re wonderful at adding details that only you can see, and I proudly wear the glow you give me with every look.
You are not afraid to have a voice. And mine is always free to wander through your thoughts.
We wake up at the same time wishing to surprise each other with fresh coffee. Because you know how much I like it and because its smell on my skin is your favorite perfume.
You have such a lousy intuition. At some point, you’ll have to stop investing your trust in it. Be reasonable, because you’re a terrific thinker.
God, those people who praise every step you take! Why can’t they help you grow?

But you will never stop. You will always look for the best in yourself and wrap it up in a gift for me on no occasion. You will always find the best in me and cherish it as if it were that type of art that increases its value in time. We will feel each other like the lyrics feel their music. We’ll know the right reasons why we were written in the same play.

And that, my love, is lovely.