A/N: I was feeling warm and fuzzy and wanted to write a fluffy Faberry fic, since it's been a bit of a while since I wrote one. At first, I thought of writing this in third person like I always do, but after mulling it over in my head, I felt that it's more raw when written in second person. It's my first time writing using this style, and I would love to know what you guys think. Oh, and I hope you like the poetry that I wrote and used here. :)

You could write a thousand songs about Quinn, but somewhere deep inside your heart you know that it will never be enough to show how much you love her. But you try, anyway. The romantic part of you needs to do that. So you write songs about her; of how much you appreciate the closeness of her heart and body to yours.

Those songs are little secrets that you share with her, and only her. Only you and Quinn know of their existence; how, those stacks of papers are inserted neatly in brown envelopes, sitting safely in your desk drawer. There are already a few albums that you could make out of them, but you don't feel like sharing a single song to the world.

You're selfish that way, but only because those compositions are reserved for Quinn's ears alone. For countless times, you've shouted to the whole world of your love for Quinn. Maybe not literally, but you make it a point to thank her in all of your interviews-whether it be on television or on the radio.

And you would do it over and over again, until your final, dying breath.

But you're too young for that. There are many more years you have to spend with Quinn, after all. More music to make, more ways to show the things you feel about her.

You've written many songs for her, and you have yet to try your hand at writing a poem. Between the two of you, Quinn is the one who composes them. Each one beautiful and lovely in their own way. There are, of course, a number that she's written for you, and you find yourself reading them frequently as a source of inspiration.

So, late into the night while Quinn is fast asleep on the bed that you share together, you switch on your desk light, take a scented stationary and your favorite pen, and start writing a poem for the first time. It isn't as natural to you as compared to writing songs, but it isn't quite difficult either.

Things rarely are, when you do them for Quinn.

You hunch over your desk, concentrating deeply as you let the words flow inside your mind and allow your pen to glide over the piece of paper. For a brief second, you distract yourself by glancing at the framed photo of Quinn sitting on your desk, her hazel eyes bright and fueled with joy, her smile wide and breathtaking.

It causes your heart to flutter and a soft smile to grace your lips, and you know that in this lifetime and any other lifetimes lying in wait out there that you will never see a sight as beautiful as this.

With your smile still fixed in place, you finish the poem, carefully fold it, and tuck it inside one of the envelopes that hold your music sheets. You place it inside your drawer and switch off the light, then climb into bed and kiss Quinn's forehead before falling asleep, your face buried in her soft, golden hair that reminds you of the sun.

The words that you've just written echoing in the depths of your mind as your breathing evens out.

It isn't until a week later that Quinn finds the poem. You know that from time to time, she likes to pull out an envelope or two from your desk drawer and read through the lyrics that you've written by hand. Sometimes, you would catch her with tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes misty and fingers quivering as she takes in the meaning of your-no, her songs, because you've given them to her. It makes you love her all the more, setting you on fire, burning you, overwhelming you.

Sometimes, you would cry yourself because it feels as though you're always underestimating the strength of your feelings for her.

So you would cry together, then you would crack a joke or say something silly before things got too out of hand and you're crying with her until the end of the day. And then Quinn would laugh, a few times smacking your arm while her face is streaked with a mixture of happy and sad tears. You laugh with her, though you would do so quietly so that you could hear hers perfectly.

Her laughter, you would tell her, is your favorite song. You say that it sounds like a choir of angels, hovering above your heads, singing. Quinn would blush, giggle abashedly, and lightly slap your chest. When you wrap your arms around her and kiss her cheek, she would ask you why you haven't tried writing a poem.

You would answer by shrugging and telling Quinn that you probably aren't going to be any good, and that you might not be the poetic type. Silently, she would listen to you, and afterwards tell you that you are a poet-that it reflects in all the songs that you've written. You then contemplate it, but push the thoughts aside more often that entertain them, repeatedly telling yourself that poems are better off left with Quinn writing them instead of you.

Until the previous week, you've never written a single one. But now you have, and you've nearly forgotten that you did so until you see Quinn lying down on your bed, the stationary in her hand and the brown envelope that you used to hide it sitting on the bedside table.

You nervously shove your hands inside your pockets, wondering if Quinn thinks it good enough for her standards. Not wanting to distract her, you silently stand there from across the bed, watching the way her lips curl up into what looks to be a giddy smile. She chuckles and traces her fingers over the ink splayed about the paper, her bright smile unfaltering.

Unable to wait any longer, you walk over to her and climb onto the bed, where Quinn finally notices your presence. Wearing a small smile, you wrap an arm around her shoulder and pull her in, molding the sides of your bodies together. Her hair, you note, is slightly damp, and you bury your nose in its softness, the strands tickling a part of your face.

"Rachel Berry, you wrote a poem," Quinn says softly, still smiling, nodding towards the stationary in her hand. "When did you write this?"

"A week ago," you answer, splaying your fingers above her arm. Quinn stares at you, and you already know what she is going to ask you next. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing…"

Quinn grins and straddles your lap, and before you know it, she is curling a fist around your shirt and kissing you, her lips ever so soft and pliant over your own. You slide your hands to her waist and moan into her mouth, and she responds by taking your lower lip in between her teeth.

Before she pulls away, you kiss her one more time. She sighs, her breath warm and smelling faintly of peppermint toothpaste.

"I told you that you're a poet," she murmurs, nudging your foreheads together.

You suck in a deep breath, focusing your gaze on her hazel eyes. "Not really. I'm sure that isn't as good as the ones you've written," you mumble as you close your eyes.

Quinn shakes her head in disagreement and plants her palm over your chest, right above your beating heart. The heart that beats for her.

"On the contrary, it's very beautiful, Rachel. Poems don't have to be flowery all the time," she whispers, gently pressing your chest. "What matters is that they come from your heart. Like how you write your songs."

Her voice is gentle, laced with a certain tenderness that you have encountered numerous times throughout the course of your relationship. Your throat suddenly turns dry, so you just nod and hold her close.

"So, you like it?" you ask quietly, and Quinn nods and flashes that giddy smile again.

You can't help but grin at that, feeling proud of yourself for such an accomplishment.

"I do," Quinn says softly, dreamily. Your breath catches in her throat and for a moment, you imagine your wedding day. Imagine Quinn saying 'I do' while you are both standing in front of the altar, while she wears a pure white gown and her face streaked with tears of joy. Your heart stutters in its rhythm, and you fight the tears that are threatening to spill from your eyes.

And you think, what you have with Quinn, what you share with her, must be the most beautiful kind of love there is.

"Will you recite it for me?" she requests as she strokes your cheek with her other hand.

Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, and you release a shaky sigh as you revel in the smoothness of Quinn's fingers gliding over your skin.

"Please?" she pleads in her honey smooth voice, and you know that there is absolutely no way of fighting it.

So you open your eyes and nod, and Quinn's face lights up in her delight. She folds the piece of paper and puts it on top of your bedside table, then resumes her initial position on top of you. Taking a deep, self-assuring breath, you reach deep within you and recite the words from memory, trying hard not to feel self-conscious about the way Quinn is looking at you with eagerness and longing.

"When I write songs, I think of you. I think of your lively laughter, the richness of your voice, the things you make me do. You, my love, are my music, my life. Each lyric softly singing, echoing within the depths of my heart, resounding for only you to hear; I love you, I love you, I love you," you whisper, keeping in mind the tips that Quinn has given you when it comes to reciting poems.

Your voice is raw with emotion as you let the last word fall from your lips, and Quinn appears to be on the verge of tears herself. Her lips start to quiver, her eyes beginning to cloud over. And then her tears start to fall, trickling down on your face.

You gaze directly into Quinn's flickering hazel eyes as you place your hand on top of hers, the one that is currently clutching your chest.

"Rachel," Quinn chokes, and you can see that she is trying her hardest to hold herself back. "Thank you. That was so beautiful. I love you so much," she adds shakily as she leans in to kiss you.

By this time, you've just about exploded yourself. You cry silently as you kiss her, your emotions all over the place as her lips glide against yours in that familiar rhythm that you have set within yourselves. Kissing Quinn is, and always will be, a wonderful experience for you.

She gasps softly as you roll her over onto her back, and you lose yourself in the heat of her skin and in the way she moans your name as you kiss her again and again, until your lungs are devoid of oxygen. No sooner than later you are both naked and she is clutching your shoulders as you slide your fingers in and out of her wet heat, and you whisper her name as she trembles underneath you.

Before she comes, she asks you to recite the poem one more time, and you comply with her wish.

At the final I love you, Quinn shudders and drags her fingernails across your back, her body arching high off the bed as she desperately moans out your name and releases around your digits.

You gather her in your arms and tell her that you love her, and she returns the sweet words as she dances her fingers around your chest, her lower lip tucked underneath her teeth.

The next day, the poem is framed and hanged on the wall above your bed, and you are always reminded of its presence, of the fact that you've written it every time you and Quinn make love.

Occasionally, Quinn would ask you to softly speak the words in her ear while you did, and you would willingly give in to her quiet, simple requests.

And as you look at her, as your chest rise and falls with every breath that you take, as you consider the possibility of writing more poems about her, for her, these words resound in your head and in your heart:

You love her, you love her, you love her.