For my Lover

For my lover. For the days when the world can barely contain us. For the days when our passion is too much yet not enough. For the days when your languid body curls into mine, wasted, satisfied, being envied by the moon. For the days when we have more hope in our hearts than we could ever imagine – so much that the scared children we once were finally find the refuge they’ve always been looking for. For my lover on these days. But, for my lover, especially on days when milk tea and piles of books and silence are enough.

I do not wonder if you will be the brightest star in the room. I do not wonder if our first meeting will illicit passion of the eyes. In fact, my dear, I’d rather not play those games. So cliché, it is, don’t you think? Love at first sight and all of that.  I’d rather you test my misguided preconceptions of aesthetic vanity. When I eventually allow myself to meet your eyes and trace the outline of your face, let not ‘hot’ come to mind. Instead, let wrinkles, scars, mismatched folds of skin draw me to question the mysteries of a stranger, to pull the essence of you to me.

There are things I do worry for though: worldliness, morality, intelligence. When we discuss September 11th and I ask you where you were and how it affected you, what will you say? When I ask for your views on democracy, will you give me lively debate? Will your questioning lead me to question myself? Will you laugh dismissively when I attempt to deconstruct Da Vinci’s hidden meanings? Will you say, “Babe, stick with Leo from Titanic”?

Will you share my secret ethical quarrels with eating flesh or will you have already taken the higher road? And if you have already overcome the lust of acquired taste, will you constantly remind me of my own misgivings? Will you be that type of person who makes conversation with a stranger while you help an old lady carry her groceries to the car? Or will you watch silently as others take form around you, going about their daily business? Will it be ‘us’ and ‘them’?

I do not hope that you are materially rich. The Taj-Mahal has long ago had its diamonds stolen, gold removed. Yet, its tribute, a monument to love, still stands. I will not require things to show off to others. I will not say, “What did you get me?”

Instead, my love, a shoulder to lean against is a profound necessity.

On nights when I am the most damaged, which words will you offer me? Or will words not be your forte at all?  Perhaps, for all the literary cobwebs that plague my mind, you will bring action.

Right now, I do not know who you will be or what you will be or if you will come to me or if you are already here, next to me at times, tiny butterflies still in their cocoons.

I do not know who I will be or what I will be.

All I do know is that I am, at the core, a lover of the world, a survivor of it, a contributor, a product. I crave theology, history, art and philosophy. I crave the way the ocean looks through a lens. I crave nights worrying that I haven’t done enough to offset my privilege, a guilt that causes me to give so profusely, sometimes I wish I could remove it, ball it up and throw it against others like a landmine.

All I do know is that for all my flaws, I am loveable. And when you do come to me, with respect and sincerity in your eyes, I will give you the parts of me that I’ve managed to reserve. Yours to keep. Just yours.

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