As this plane ride drags on for hours,
I sit and picture you with flowers.
Flowers so I say, “that’s what he does.
He gets me flowers ‘just because.’”

I hear a tapping late at night
at my window, though it’s shut tight.
Tripping over shirts and socks,
I look out and you’re throwing rocks.

Surrounded by your friends (and me)
I’m sure you don’t want them to see.
But still you are super sweet
and kiss me; sweep me off my feet.

I was “mean,” now I feel bad,
even though you’re not a bit mad.
You went and made my conscience bug.
Now I feel forced to give you a hug.

I’ve died about a hundred times;
mowed down by bullets or stepped on mines.
Still, you give me the controller,
insisting you can always “do it over.”

My brother is neither in contact nor sight,
but still you invite me to hang for a night.
In a garage with guys I don’t know,
you still make sure that I’m not always alone.

Coming home from far away,
you came back home and called to say,
“I figured I should give you a call,
since, you know, I missed you and all.”

A message from you, by web or by phone
warms me, from my skin to my bone.
And I can say, “that’s what he does.
He sends me messages ‘just because.’”