To me our love means days at home in socks and old clothes. It means discovering new films and being creatively excited with each other. It’s watching your face amused as I dance unguarded to the radio in the kitchen. Love is walking the supermarket isles and choosing orange juice together. It’s in the way you hug me from behind as I cook on a work night. It’s hiding in our apartment to surprise you with a birthday cake after your long uneventful day at work. Love is reading by your side in bed and a spontaneous long kiss as we pass in the hallway. Love is your comfort when I’ve broken something special or when you run me a bath. Love is a long hug when I’m feeling down and the sky is grey. Love is in the days we waste in bed together. It’s in your offer to carry the heavier bags or tie my shoelaces when I broke my arm. Love is finding a café you know I’ll love or hanging your arm around the back of my chair at a dinner party. It’s in covering me with blankets when I’m sick and letting me have the window side on the train. Love is those days you’re away and all I think of is you.