Coming home to you is the best part of my day/evening/night. Coming home to you feels like an ocean mist on my face when the temperature scalds above 90. Coming home to you is learning on Friday that you have the weekend off. Coming home to you is a fresh tank of gas in your car. Coming home to you is a new, unopened pack of cigarettes. Coming home to you feels like I’ve just hand-cut (with scissors) an entire acre of grass. Coming home to you is the look on my mother’s face when I tell her I truly have found the one. Coming home to you is seeing in her eyes that she knows it too. Coming home to you is knowing that everyone important to me in my life, absolutely and unconditionally, loves you. Coming home to you are those dried rose petals you pressed between the pages of a book from the first bouquet I got you. Coming home to you is the one-of-a-kind painting I had made for you for Christmas.

Coming home to you, is coming home to YOU. Nobody else, but you.
That’s the best part of my day. You.

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