This.

This poem makes my heart burst, of course. And throb and ache and all those terrible, wonderful things that hearts do when they are confronted by raw love.

It’s worth noting that I don’t ride a bike to school – or anywhere – and that I don’t make lunch. I understand why she decided to go with with ‘Smunch’ as a nickname – her real nickname doesn’t rhyme with ‘lunch’ – but again, I don’t make lunch, so it really wasn’t an issue to begin with.

But whatever. What are facts in the face of poetry?

She is my heart – ‘my hart’ – and I am hers, and that is all that matters.