My cup runneth over

My cheeks are flushed with love; a shade of pink that makes me think of, strangely enough, psoriasis.

I know that each of us wants to feel loved-- a truth that is as immutable as it is sad. But when it is given to us, our need to embrace it becomes of lesser consequence than our need to question its sincerity or intent. We challenge our worth by asking why. We reduce its virtue through semantics, as if claiming love for one deemed undeserving by uncritical standards is a crime.

I wish it were so simple to say, as it should. Instead, I write...

I love you, because you're beautiful when you smile and you don't know it. Because you're breathtaking even when you don't.

Because you hugged me and it felt nice. Because, though you made me a promise we both know would be impossible to keep, it was one you gave to me and it was a gift.

Because when I said you're my friend, you said "always".

Because you make me laugh. Because your voice is an infectious melody. Because aside from your voice and your guitar, I hear music in your words.

Because the world is rosier as I see it through your eyes. Because your hands, like your soul, are gentle.

Because I can lay myself-- body and soul-- naked before you and know I won't be judged. Because you took the time to get to know me and I am honored rather than ashamed.

Because you are beautiful and you've touched my life.

My cup runneth over...