You make a good point. Loving me is about more than the dishes you don't empty from the washer your way of clumping my wet clothes together on the line the bed unmade, morning and night the towel on the floor, open drawers. You are exactly right that these are all small matters like the meals you don't cook taxes filed late gifts unchosen, letters unsent. Of course, of course of course these things are not precious. But I am.
You told me you're an ass man and I thought Great! I have that in ample supply. Now I understand you better than you know you really are an ass, man.
I don't know how to sing this but in a whisper I can say how beautiful how beautiful how beautiful this all is
Why so tired, so sad? With horror I ask myself: how many times did I feed you broth of my own bones?
On Wednesdays we sit my foot resting against your calf under the table over plates of pan-fried dumplings and a steaming bowl of soup And I want to say how much I need this the gentle thing finding its way between us as we laugh and tell our stories of love's disappointment the children we are raising and a future so uncertain I cannot name it
This is what I want to say: I love your broken heart.
Much too soon to tell if this happiness, lightness is the prelude or the thing itself.
I hear everything you are saying I, too, am a cautious person prone to thinking it all through But here's the thing: it's not that complicated We love with our minds, yes but also with skin and tongues and the soles of our feet So if you are ready to love like that Come find me It's not that complicated
Yes, I think it's important that you do you. Just keep in mind that means you don't do me.
There are deaths of many kinds only some of them put us in the ground the rest leave us wandering, wed and dead