Your love is like a leaky faucet.

The plumber came by yesterday and fixed the leaky faucet in my bathroom. I used to lie awake in bed, listening to the drip -- drip -- drip. I obsessed over it. Knew its rhythm. Allowed it to lull me to sleep every night.

The faucet wasn't always broken; it took months for it to break. I could see that it was weakening over time, yes, but it broke all at once one day and, really, there was nothing I could do to fix it. It was a nuisance. Constant, unavoidable, and a pain. It was audible; it kept me up. How could I sleep when there was a constant noise not even one room away?

I tried to ignore it most nights, cranked up the music as I read, or put in a movie to drown out the drip -- drip -- drip. Nothing worked; it always made it through somehow and it always kept me up. It became part of my routine, this noise. I anticipated hearing it at night, needed it to go to sleep. I started worrying that if I were to get it fixed, sleep would be impossible for me. I resisted for months, hell-bent on preserving it.

Tonight is the first night it will not lull me to sleep.

Tonight is the first night I cannot hear it through the wall.

Tonight I will rely on nothing but counting sheep.

And now that it's gone, I feel relieved and satisfied. I know with certainty that sleep won't be impossible; I know with certainty that the leaky faucet's absence won't hinder my existence; I know I will adjust.

The plumber finally fixed that leaky faucet. There's a calm without the drip.

I feel calm.