It shows in the way you wash your hands after work, the way you scrub your nails so they're nice and clean before you touch me.
It shows in the way you pull our hairs out of the drain and don't make a face because you find it as disgusting as I do.
It shows in the way you sneak out into the hallway when you have to get up before me and the way you don't touch my snack in the fridge even though you're hungry.
It shows in the way you visited me in hospital every day until I got better and read my every wish from my eyes long before I said it.
It shows in the way you smile politely and then grimace when my parents visit us.
It shows when you think I'm not looking and don't notice you looking at my butt, in my new skinny jeans, after all these years.
It shows in the way you hold my hand, gently but firmly.
It shows in your smile when I give you tight hugs and massages when your back hurts and we laugh about how old and uncool we've become.
The love you hold for me shows itself every day, in many small ways.