If there is no red thread binding us together I’ll grab a string and do it myself, loop it twice around our wrists, tie it with a knot and a kiss for good measure. Fate has no business telling me who to love. I’ve been yours since we met.

“Fool” you say. “You’re such a fool.” For you, yes, for this, always. For that smile your lips only curl into when I do things to make you smile, to make you chase me around. Fool. I’ll be yours if you’ll be mine.

My voice changes when I speak to you. Maybe it’s the love coating my tongue, the sugary sweetness of it softening the edges of the words.

What is devotion? Perhaps something as simple as a flick of someone’s chin, a thumb grazing their cheek, a hand patting their back, circling their waist. Devotion is love given hands, care translated into attention.

Sometimes you talk and talk just to be interrupted with a kiss. You nag and poke and prod just to be challenged, to be cornered, to be held tight. Chests heaving, hearts racing, your lips curling into a smirk. Just what you wanted, right?

I have no claim on you but there’s a spot on your neck with the shape of my lips marked on it, and if mankind can claim the moon, I can claim I have gone to a holy place too.

Not “crushing,” just utterly besotted. Not “whipped,” just entirely defenceless against the advances of the person who holds your heart in their hands. Not “dating,” just fools in love.

If you spend long enough around someone you start borrowing little bits of them. Matching clothes, smiles, and even hearts — you are what you love.

I’m bilingual, fluent in suffering in silence and yearning in secret. I’ve written you letters in both.

How many times have you been caught staring, caught wearing your heart in your eyes? One time, two, three? I can only guess, but every time I look your way, you’re already looking at me.