Her
No matter what, I’d choose her again. Her smile and laugh greet me in the morning, as she turns over in our bed to face me. She rushes to get up, her bare feet clicking across our wood floors. I always go back to bed, so I can be woken up again by her face, her gentle hand shaking me as she hands me coffee and her voice coming across sweetly, the same everyday asking if I want take out or if I want her to cook.
I hug her tightly, my hands wrap around her waist and she giggles, complaining that she has to get ready despite falling deeper into my arms. She’ll push me away after a while, fed up with my love. Yet I'd never be able to get enough of her.
And when I see her again, later on. Though her smile has faded, and she can’t laugh as much. It’s all the same. I’ll cook dinner for her, despite her retaliation. She eats it as quickly as it comes out, I warn her about burning her mouth, and a bit of her smile will return. I hold her tightly once the lights are off, and she’ll fall asleep in my arms.
The next day, her smile isn’t there and laughter isn't present, but as I get ready I can't help but grin. I love her all the same.