I don't measure you by the number of days. I measure you by the number of tan lines and sun spots that map my skin like a constellation, the number of sea shells I find embellishing the shore, the number of laughs that lead to the shedding of tears, the number of stories shared over home-cooked meals. By the number of times I fall in love in between your unbridled months.

I measure you this way because there's simply no other way to measure you. Because there is a peculiar magic to you—one that I wish to bottle up and get drunk on, to press onto scrapbooks and film photos, to write in lines of flowing poetry and song.

Because in the freshness of your youth, there is an undeniable timelessness, and I want to carry that—your timelessness, your youth, your warmth—throughout all my days, throughout the chill of December and the drudgery of the mundane.

Because you've taken me on some of my favorite adventures, and I wish for my whole life to be filled with them—tan lines and sea shells, laughter and good food, stories and lovers.