Sometimes saying “I love you” just doesn’t feel like enough, that the truth of the emotion, the raw reality in my veins can’t pour out of me enough and I feel helpless, gasping and gaping like one of the kissing gouramis’ I’ve always been fascinated with, the mindless pucker and blow. But it’s like that, and more, an all encompassing surrender, the taut rightness of a bubble surrounding us, brimming.
I thought I had loved before. I’ve known love. But I’ve also known hurt and anger, cusses that burn the air around them, glares that could deny nationhood-I’ve known them all. I’ve known the love that ends, the love that fears, the love that wounds. They are recorded on and in my body, scars and colors across me, reminders I don’t really need if I think about it. It’s all here.
With him I know peace, and a singular focus. In his arms I murmur and become whole, better. I see a future, I see many futures, laid out with so much possibility it makes me want to cry. Such beauty in such a simple thing. With him, I love, and am loved. No questions, no fear. Just love.
There are days where it terrifies me, how plain I feel before him, how exposed. We’re standing in my front yard under the newborn sun of April and I almost whisper “I want a home with you.” and realize I DO! I want that with him-perhaps not this home, perhaps not right now but I see it as clearly as I feel his arms envelop me. I want to wake to his arms each morning, I want to hear him tell me I’m gorgeous every afternoon before dinner, I want to have a silly argument about who’s cooking every day.
I want to be the person he comes home to. I want to be his home.
I am full with this. I am distracted and heavy with love, settled in my place, blinded by my reflection in his eyes. I never expected to fall in love, not now, not going on 34 with two kids and a mortgage but fuck me if I didn’t wake up and realize that somewhere, in August on a hot highway or October through the dusky leaves I have fallen utterly and completely in love and it’s more incredible than I ever imagined. It is simple this love. You live your life believing that love is complicated and difficult but it really isn’t. It’s a hand on a knee on a drive through the country. It’s a whoopie pie from hours away. It’s a voice telling you to sit down, let me bring you supper.
It’s knowing he’s got your back, and believes, completely, in you. It’s a glance at the mall, and the knowledge that you really don’t have to say it out loud.
It’s a quiet voice, whispering we.
He makes me feel gloriously, effortlessly, like me.
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
(Neruda, of course. I never liked him before now. Huh.)