/He oils his hair often/
Even in the springs I don't like or the summers that bore me, I've loved you the same. In winters, there are pretty dreams and you, prettier and I'd love you the same.
Seasons change and my hands are rarely warm; on rarer days yours are a bit less warm, yet, the weather feels better when you hold my hand.
You know me the most, from the darkest of layers to the days like a bright sunny day, I'd let you see all of it.
There's no poetry between us, love isn't as pretty a thing, romanticised, like poetry.
You look pretty when you oil your hair, or wash it, when you bend to tie your shoelaces, when you're in the mode; observing and analysing, you are pretty, your eyes are, your love is.
There's no poetry here either, just love, our love.