I'm keeping a list of all the ways I want to love.
He asked me why I'd never written about him. I thought about all the lost love letters I wrote to and about people I grieved for and it dawned on me. I want to love him in this body and not in my mind. I want to watch him and really look, perhaps notice the strands of hair that his headband couldn't reach and so they're hanging by the side of his face. I want to hold his hand and collect a virtual memory of his tattoos, are they changing colors or are they more vivid in the sun? His sweaty, sticky, soft hands I'd hold for hours if I could.
He asked me why I'd never written about him. Instead, my mind had started to roam in the shared inches between us and I couldn't begin to process the peace I haven't felt in a long time. He's all strange and calm and beautiful. And no, it's not that I don't want to write. It's that I'm not used to writing when I'm busy being happy and falling in love.
He asked me why I'd never written about him. But through our flaws and imperfections combined we've already written yeses and noes and a couple of let's-try-to-work-this-out-because-I-want-to-do-this-with-you or I'm sorry I'm a mess and I'm sorry I'm troubled and anxious but I'll never apologize for loving you.
He doesn't believe he's beautiful, but why am I always running out of words to describe how precious he is, the way he laughs at his own punchlines, or the way his eyes pierce me straight into my soul as though he has stripped me completely naked? This is someone I'd romanticize each waking moment except I live and breathe those moments too.
If he asks me why I'd never written about him, I'd probably say “I apologize for taking so long but I've been collecting love notes and movie tickets and I saved every silly pictures and dedicated you songs. I would have saved some of the tears too but you'd always pick up the mirror so I could see myself ugly cry and we'd both laugh at how funny I look.”
This is a love I'd like to keep.