I am not a poet. I am a scientist. I can measure the exact frequency of your voice when you speak my name, but I cannot explain how it resonates with such perfect clarity down my spine. I can describe the process by which you inherited your mother’s hair and your father’s smile, but I cannot explain where the twinkling galaxies in your eyes came from. I am baffled by the apparent gravitational anomaly that draws me to you with a force far too great for your size. I know of no way to quantify  the volume of your presence in a room.

I am not a poet. I am a scientist. Prose is not my specialty. I will never be able to combine words to craft sonorous verses as easily as I combine chemicals in a flask, but know this — to me, you are every bit as fascinating as the view through a microscope. To me, you are a mystery greater than any cat in a box, and are fraught with as much uncertainty. Each day brings new understanding of you,  and the knowledge that there is still far more  to discover.

we can get a tiny shoe box apartment that’s too expensive

explore the city daily

become regulars at some coffee shop 

have sleepovers in the living room

marathon our favorite movies and tv shows

sit together while we blog

always order in because we’re too lazy to cook

play board games