i can't tell if you're eager to unpack your bags, or if i am, but we've started pulling things out. we've packed in parallel, too. different items, same reason. i don't recognize the things you've packed, but i know the feeling on your face when you look at them.

i don't know why i love you. i can list things, sure, the way you laugh, how you keep trying till you run yourself into a wall, the time you stayed up with me till one in the morning, how you text me when you know i'm in the middle of class and not paying attention. but i can't tell you any of that is why i love you. i'm not a liar (neither are you).

sometimes i worry that i love you as desperate proof that someone can love me. that if i can go through your baggage, touch every sharp edge and hurt and sorrow and love you (despite? because?) of it someone can do the same for me.