I knew your name before I knew your story — each syllable carefully rolled off my tongue and slipped into the open, the taste of your nomenclature on the insides of my mouth (sweet, yet fiery like liquid nitrogen) before the tellings of what made you. How you scraped your knuckles falling off a bike when you were six, but was more concerned about the damage to your bicycle — something not as living breathing consuming as you are. It made me wonder how much you had to give.
I knew your story before I knew I loved you — the way your heart works before I was aware it was capable of capturing mine.