Salt. Honey. Coffee.

One table, two cups. One steamed and the other iced. One without sugar and the other with some honey. You ask me if I like mine. I tell you that I didn't know coffee could be burnt. Embarrassed, you scratch your head. And I smile. Not at your nose scrunch or at how you have secretly added some salt to my coffee. But because I have finally found the answer.

Last week you asked me what my love language is. And I didn't know...until now. After a week and a burnt coffee, I have found the answer - doing things badly, together.

Because what is love if not that?

We could make portraits that look nothing like us and hang them on the wall. It won't resemble how I see you. No, you're much better than anything I could draw, I already know that. But it'll show how my hands are okay holding that lead and taking an hour only to end up making what looks like a doodle that is hidden in the pages of a forgotten notebook. We could sing our favorite song and I know I will forget the lyrics and sing a little off-tune. And I know that you'll notice and just sing along, a little happier than before. We could take all the almost-too-old ingredients from the refrigerator and cook something that tastes like nothing. Extra garlic and less salt. We might not like the taste of it now; but I know this memory will stay more fragrant than the time we baked a cake perfectly.

I could let perfectionism win some other time, with someone else. But not with you. I want to do things badly with you. I want to show you my heart but you will not find it in muted songs and well-written letters. You will find it in the first draft that sits shyly in the recycle bin, the burnt cake and the underdone ravioli, the lines that go out of the

picture and the lines that never run straight. I want to show you who am. I want one table, two cups…and a burnt coffee.

So, let's do this well and everything else badly (and together).