I’m starting to think that one day I will run out of words to write.
One day, I will have already said everything that I wanted to say to you. There are only so many words I know, so many combinations of phrases. The letters will start to look more and more like the same, until it feels like loving you is routine.
One day, I will have already known every inch of your skin. There are only so many parts of you I can love, so many different ways I can love you physically. My kisses will start to feel more and more like the same, until it feels like loving you is routine.
One day, I will have known you like I know myself; you, vice versa. Newness will fade like a wisp into thin air, and we will question how many more “firsts” we can do. There will come a time whereby I will wonder to myself, “When is the last time we have done something for the first time?” Hopefully, perhaps by then my bucket list will already have been fully checked. Hopefully, we will by then have settled down into blissful stability, that we may look back on the ferocious waves of doubt and uncertainty we now experience and congratulate ourselves for braving through all the storms, that in the end all of our worries proved to be unnecessary.
Yet, may this routine be the most blissful one. This routine, my shelter, my saviour, my solace. This routine, where the greatest happiness and wildest adventures are shared. This routine, where the unhappy days turn for the better. This routine, until death does us apart.
Routine is not necessarily equivalent to boredom. Days like this, I cling on to the hopes that healthy routines are necessary. That I will embrace the same you that I have loved, and continue to love, through it all, the same spirit, the same soul.
In the end, may I love you to the end just like the first time I have loved you; all day, every day. That this warmth stays the same, like it always has been.
但愿如此。
; 