dear you,
I love you. Though I'm not sure you'd know what I mean when I say that. I don't even know if I know what love is myself, but I think if I were to imagine it, it would be something like this. But be warned that it's kind of a fuzzy picture.
When I say I love you, I mean you make me feel safe, and comfortable. When I'm with you, I see for myself a future. And I don't mean I want to be with you forever, because "forever" does not exist in my vocabulary; nor am I naive enough to think that it would be possible, for everything comes to an end. It's the feeling of permanence in a passing moment, even though there is no reason to believe that there should be more than that. A moment. It's forever, with or without you. And maybe it's a false sense of eternity, but I find it comforting, and I think I should allow myself to indulge in that.
When I say I love you, I don't mean I want to fuck you, which, I assume, is generally what people think it means when someone says that, or what I mean when I say that to you. But I don't, because we're too good for that. I think I once confused sex with love, lust with longing. Needless to say, the result of that was disastrous. Since then I've come to realize that no matter how poetic we try to make it, it's by nature something animalistic. And we're better than that.
I love you, and it's really quite simple. You give me a degree of certainty among this chaos; peace and quiet from this noise in my head. And it's not about tomorrow, or forever; it's not about having you or not having you, needing you or not needing you. Sometimes it hurts to know that I love you that much, because part of the beauty lies in the paradox of its temporariness and perpetuity.
Now at this point I don't really know what I'm talking about anymore. I feel that my words are evading me when I try to reach and touch them, and when I eventually give up, they stand there and mock me. Much like every time I panic and think of the day I might lose you. To life, to time, to whatever it might be. I try desperately to hang on, yet the harder I try the further I slip. Then I convince myself to accept defeat, only to realize that I'm still in the same place, the sole difference being the added silliness of the unfounded fear.
I have a feeling that this is becoming a futile endeavour. I tell myself that there's no need for this, because you probably already know, already understand. But sometimes I really can't be sure, (though I'm not sure I've achieved anything just now either).
It's a more beautiful world with you here, and I hope you know that.
from a not-so-coherent-me
with love
and gratitude
p.s. don't feel embarassed