(I wrote this a week or so before Joe brought up the RE: Love collab again.  It seems to fit.  I think one of the tricky parts of love is still finding a way to care for those who may no longer feel the same way about you, wanting the best for them even if it doesn't feel like the best for you, trying your best to support them when they've moved on.)

If he does not hold the door for you before every threshold 
and insist that you enter first, stop wasting your time. 

If he doesn’t tell you “goodnight” every single night, sleep
without spending a single toss or turn on him. Lose him
with the last hue of sunset. File him under “4AM” and sleep
soundly through it. Not a stir.

When he discovers the name of your favorite song, leave him if
he doesn’t learn every note, take up the bassoon, teach an
entire marching band the tune, and high step them to your front yard,
beneath your window, to spell a perfectly choreographed,
“Honey, you’re my superhero theme song” under you.

If you tell him you’re cold, stop returning his calls if he doesn’t
build the world’s biggest ladder out of stacked chairs and overturned
dumpsters, peal the sun like an orange, and wrap one of its layers
around your shoulders. He shouldn’t mind the burnt finger tips.
If he does this, kiss his index and thumb like his mother would.

When you are visibly upset and your eyes Niagara down your
freckled cheeks from bad days, tragedies, crises, or disappointment
in lackluster sitcom season finales, he better ask what’s wrong
and make eye contact with you when he does, believing his sincerest
“I love you’s” can Hoover Dam every tear from your face. 

If he has a motorcycle, demand that he take you to dinner in a car, 
with a roof. You didn’t spend all that time gettin’ dolled up for it to fall
victim to hurricane Harley. You are precious cargo. In his care, 
always wear a jacket with “FRAGILE” embroidered across the back
as a reminder.

He must never rebel without, only marvel with a cause. You. 
He should aspire to be like James Dean’s lesser known uncle, 
Mitch, an overly cautious crossing guard who lived to be 106
and always drove at least 10 under the speed limit.

A leather jacket can’t love you like a seatbelt, may his arm always
be as tight around you.

When I said I only wanted the best for you, I meant every word of it,
even though I spent a handful of sleepless nights struggling to believe it.
I’m no stranger to not being first pick, I took gym countless times
in my youth and attended plenty of middle school dances and not
a single one of my celebrity crushes has responded to any of the
wedding proposals I tweet them daily.

I wanna wish you well enough to put every genie out of business,
enough to overflow every one of those wells until we’re stranded
in a Waterworld only Kevin Costner can save us from.

I want the best for you, even now, after all this time, because
that’s how you love someone.