He held her gaze
Strong and deep
And looked down at her face,
Smiling to himself.
Their love story wasn’t epic
Nor was it perfect.
No, their love story was simple.
It consisted of life.
It consisted of coffee mugs and fresh linen,
The smell of laundry and green grass.
It was the feel of an old book,
Torn at the edges, yet still intact.
It was the grace of a sleepy smile
And the symphony of soft snores
It was far from perfect
But it was a beautiful imperfection.


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