Someone to wake up to. To share the weather with, then the coffee.
Someone to dream with—to plan and scheme and then celebrate with.
Someone to win with, and someone to lose with.
Someone to care for and protect—and to let go of and watch fly.
Someone to stare at in wonder, and to think, “That heart loves mine.”
Someone to talk long with under stars on frosty nights. To giggle through scarves and gloves and hats with, and to kiss under mistletoe.
Someone to hold. Someone to be held by. To be treasured by a treasure.
Someone to notice birds with. To catch flashes of blue and green and purple and brown—and to feel the excitement of soaring little wonders. To see life as it is, not as it seems.
Someone to sit with and watch children, perhaps our own, and to laugh in their innocence and swell at our luck.
Someone to forget with.
Someone to cook with. To sweep mud off the floor. Someone to make magic out of mundane with and smile because it’s with each other.
Someone to cry with. To share rivers of grief indistinguishable from the other. To hold and to hug, and to help and to heal.
Someone to hold hands with. To glance at, fingers intertwined beneath coffee tables, and hearts blurring between eyes.
Someone to lay with with, nothing in between. To be everything holy and exist in a dream. To be naked to our souls and give everything unseen.
Someone to trust. To tell darkest secrets to and reveal hungry fears. Someone to know all of themselves and to want to see more. Someone whose eyes reflect what’s in ours.
Someone to walk with. To travel with. To find pockets of magic in grey city dullness. To drive miles and miles just for that “mile” that’s ours.
Someone to smile with. A deep knowing grin that says, “I see you” and “I’m staying.”
Someone to miss, even for a minute—until they return, and it feels like home again.
Someone to stare at for moments unending.
Someone to love.