Love
I read this today on Love is a Drug. I can relate a little too well to this guy sometimes. Anyway, enjoy... it's beautiful and since I'm dissecting love today, I'm mulling over it... and wishing it were all I know of love.

The problem is that love makes it all so damn difficult


You were the first one to teach me about ripening fruit by putting it in a paper bag. And you said you liked my hat when I wouldn�t wear it because I thought it was a fashion fraud. I wore it. One time I was so amazed by your presence in my life that I drove my lawn mower in circles out of glee. When the storms came, you suggested that we sit on the porch in rocking chairs to enjoy the humidity.



I admit that I lied about washing your flannel shirt because I liked it with your smell on it. Maybe you knew and didn�t say anything. You understand the things that I do.



You are warm to me. You make coming home worth while. And getting up, for that matter. I like you most in the morning, when your tangled hair floats in the breeze of our window fan before settling on my arm again. I like it when we stay in bed late and you wear your sleepy smile, nestling back into the craters you created in the bed. I don�t have a time that I like you least. Even when you are drunk, I am enamored.



When you get excited, your eyes light up like the little sister I never had discovering a miniature pony in our yard on Christmas morning. You don�t eat candy, but I do because it reminds me of your taste. And you have that habit slowly blowing smoke out in a perfect �v� that turns me on so much. I could watch you do that for hours, but I might explode first.



I learned to like Van Halen because you do. I eat with chopsticks, fumbling through my slowly diminishing hunger because you like a long dinner. I know all the right wineglasses now that you started bringing wine home everyday, and I love when we get drunk and laugh for hours. I drive slowly so I don�t crash and miss a night with you.



Your probably don�t see me, but I feign sleep and peek from beneath the covers as you sit Indian style in front of your mirror, putting on makeup and moving to the rhythm of routine. When we are in bed, I sometimes endure the aggravation of itches so as not to wake you. I open the door slowly on my to work in the afternoon, wincing at every creak so you will not feel alone as you nap.



Anytime I want to, I can recall the feeling of you on my lap and the warmth left by the backside of your legs. I get your newspaper for you so you do not have to have cold feet. I worry because your apartment building has a foyer with no lock that leads to your door. I kiss your tattoos as if I might never see them again.



You don�t see me cry for you, but I do. Maybe you hear the cracks in my voice and the fade of my sentences, but I won�t let you see the tears because nothing is wrong. It is joy, and I can�t even begin to explain it, even if you asked me to. I don�t have any words for those moments, but when I hug you longer than usual, you know why.



I pick what you like, because making you happy makes me happy. I see your beauty in the sway of the willows, and in the rolling breaks of the ocean that span past the reach of sight. You give me comfort like summer cottages with rickety hinges from my childhood vacations, toasty slippers by the bedside that a loved one quietly placed during my nap, and fresh soda bread that only my Aunt Alice can make.

Dose it out slowly, and go easy on me. I am a foolish man, and my dreams run me into walls.

--End