Read this in your grandmothers voice. In the one she tells you of how she met your grandfather. Cause I never had those. But they give me chills.
I have liked you since we spoke those languages lost since past generations. I met you not when I saw you. Not when we spoke. But when you were vulnerable with me. When you shared your fears. You, your voice. It rattled. It’s broke. It was sincere. And in that I met the real you. Not the damsel in distress. Not the beautiful dancer. Or the writer. I met the woman. Not the title but the being. And you were never so strong. Never so grand. When I showed you my soul. You embraced it with yours. You made it home. And since then. I haven’t lost your words.