I love the stacks of paper and abandoned pencils that lay scattered over Jacob's desk like autumn leaves on the grass. I love the way he sweeps the whole mess onto the floor in a blizzard of white when he pulls me down for love renewed in strange places, assuring me that my worth is of more than his scribblings, more than his thoughts on paper.
I love that the windchimes ring constantly in the colder mornings and that the morning ritual of a fire is a necessary chore now. The smell of the smoke and the crackling fill my nose and my ears separately and I shiver into some clothes and head down in search of a strong coffee and a long hug.
I love that he can now somehow anticipate how far downhill I have slid overnight by how tensely I sleep.
