I’ve used you in many a context, as a noun, as a verb, and in foreign languages. But only once have I found that you were the right word, and only once have I felt that you are the only way to describe my emotions. That one time, was this weekend. I wouldn’t be writing this letter if I hadn’t only just experienced what I did yesterday.
Love, dearest, you are in the mountains of Spain, the Picos de Europa. You are in every tree, every boulder, and every cloud overhead. You are the century old pueblos scattered through the hills and perched on cliffs. You’re the cow pies scattered across the trail, and every, single, blade of grass that brushes against my Choco-clad feet. You are within the voices of my peers as we chatter and eat pungent goat cheese in the rocks and trees. You are the sun streaming over the distant peaks, and are the reason for the tears streaming down my face from the pure indescribable beauty of the immensely majestic cliffs that reach almost higher than my imagination.
Lovely love, you are the reason that I wanted more than anything to grab the first person I saw and plant the fattest, wettest, sloppiest, most passionate kiss I could muster on them, right on the lips. Just to share how I felt about the wonders of nature and the magnificent splendor of it all.
Some people spend their whole lives looking for you; go on hundreds of hopeless dates looking for you. But there you are. Right exactly in front of me with not a doubt in my mind of my feelings. Love. What a wonderful thing you are when you are right. What a wonderful thing you are when you are immense, and gorgeous and splendid. Love. Amor. My heart is full with you, and will only become more full. Thank you. Thank you for the opportunity to feel this way. Thank you, love, for giving me a word to describe. Now I know, and I always will.
Te amo, amor.