Yes. Totally... tenderly... tragically.

Dear John,

We watch movies from beginning to end now. We agreed that the bed needs one more pillow, so that we both can arrange them to our liking. I no longer have a garage because paying rent for a parking space I never used was no longer relevant. You still dance for me, and I still sing you silly songs. You still bring my enchiladas for lunch, although I probably don't make them as often as you'd like. But now I don't need to write letters addressed to someone else to tell you that I love you, not since that night you wrapped your arms around me, as an '80's cover band played a song by Poison behind us, and screamed, "I don't know if I should say this yet, but I'm falling madly in love you." (Which, oddly enough, happened the night I wrote that letter about watching your pupils engorge themselves with beautiful blackness.) Now, I say "I love you" everyday. And now, you come with me to take out the recycling.

Love, me