His love was a quiet one. He did not say much; that wasn't his way. He sniffed and sighed, muttered and huffed. He whispered and drawled. But somehow, it was enough.
I never knew what this ambiguous, arbitrary capacity for enough was. Not until the measure I had dwindled to nothing and then, relatively, that little enough became it all.
His love was a quiet one, and it was not about words. Though it was silent for the most part, once you had it you could not doubt it was there.
Until it was gone.