All

All

To my fellow branch:
We who are stuck to being sticks.
Sticking together
through the splendid times
and the ones we'd as soon forget.
And yet. And yet

we are who we've grown to be
and we couldn't be who we
are without the in-betweens
and the sidetracks, without the joys
and silliness.

Love isn't all hearts and flowers.
It's dandelions and crabgrass sneaking in
when you aren't looking. It's a flat surface
that screams for too much to be piled on it
and the realization
it takes two to clear it off. Just because.
Love isn't all perfect moments. It's a string
of imperfect pearls strung on an unbreakable string.

Love is working together through strokes
of bad luck and lightning strikes. It's
a knowing that we continue to grow and change,
adapt, and learn new versions of each other
as the years fly swiftly by. It's sticking together
no matter what gets tossed our way
because we wouldn't have it any other way.

Our love is 'woofs' and hidden pigs, it's the number
of roses on an anniversary, it's the practical
and the ... so ... im.
It's putting up with each other some times
and propping up each other at others.
It beats like a drum to our own music.

You and I are each other's Valentine
every single day.
Not just one day a year.
Not just now and then.
Every. Single. Day.
And I am so happy we are
who we are.