Long ago I stopped saying all the tiny things I wanted to say. I figured that if someone wanted to hear them they would pluck them from my thoughts and listen from my eyes.

The trouble with this is that when I need to say them now I find myself all stutters and mumbles and under-my-breath-I-love-yous and none of the right words are loud enough.

I have never said them loud enough because I was always so afraid of the noise. Because so many people are shouting these things when they don't mean them and I-love-yous string across roads like electrical wires. Too commonplace and unfelt and fake. What happens when I say these things and they are drowned out by everyone else's noise?

Kate has figured out already that I am not going to come shouting about how I love her or want her or don't want to leave this world without her. She knew all of these things from the beginning anyway. The day in the coffee shop when I gave her my heart, she figured out all my secrets right then and there. And I never needed to say a word.

She knows how to harvest the things that I am thinking and keep them in boxes and letters and unsigned doodles and someday she will write the book.

She already knows that just by taking her hand I am saying more than just I love you and that I am finding a way to do it without sounding trite. She already knows that by brushing my fingers through her hair and resting my chin on her shoulder that I think she is beautiful.

Because the words are already there, repeated in glances and touches and effortless breaths of everyday love. They don't need sound frequencies or echoes because they will come in much louder and clearer without them.

It is understood and I never need to say the words.

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