32. Zayne

I've made thinking about her an art form. I've had plenty of time to practice and perfect my craft in the years we've been together: I paint her profile into the swirling maze - like shapes that draw themselves on the backs of my eyelids when I shut them tight. I compose music that sounds like the blue of her eyes, so deep and mesmerizing that looking into them can feel like drowning.

I've written odes to her lips, hymns to her hands, an elegy to the feel of her leaving my bed, the loss of that warmth. I think about her intentionally, when things are slow at work and I'm bored out of my mind. I think about her idly, when I'm in the car, headed back home where I continue missing her. I think about her when she's next to me, and when she's not. I think about her when I'm in the shower and when I don't fall asleep.

I think about her as the woman I wanted so much, the first time we met, and as the stubborn, gentle soul that touched my heart, the second time we met, properly met. Our enco