Maybe

One day you're going to make coffee for me in the morning and wonder why you never did before.  You'll know already how I like it (with just enough cream to make it caramel colored) and you'll have milk in the fridge for just that.  You'll forget you hurt me, because I will have already.  You'll forget you used to go days without really talking to anybody.  You'll want to wear jewelry for me.  You'll stop nervous-talking around me when we wake up and are still naked, because there won't be anything to be nervous about (there really isn't already).  You'll accept what family can be and appreciate ours both for what they are.  You'll teach me to camp.  You'll be disappointed in me if I smoke cigarettes.  You'll still drink much less than me but not mind how much I do.  You'll be the first person I bake a raspberry pie for, and you'll eat it with vanilla ice cream (lots of it) because I will screw up at least one thing.  But you'll eat it, and you'll pour me another glass of wine because you know that's what I prefer over a piece of pie.  You'll know when I need to hear that it's going to be ok when I'm crying, and you'll know when I just need to be held, and you'll hold on to me.  You'll tell me you love me, and I'll tell you I know.  I love you too.