“Here is the end of choice. […]
And what is choice except uncertainty of what we are?”
I love the romance of you. The somewhat ambiguous nature of you. I love your knowing. Your silent, stoic firmness. Your obduracy. I love the vulnerabilities. The moments of softening. The fleeting times in which you allow me to see you weaker. I smile at how you are reticent when I am forward. How the mention of my need for your lap to lay my head upon is met with a quiet, steely reserve.
And how you say the most staggering things to me (“I stand among those that love you’, for instance) with an almost careless elegance.
I love how simple and straightforward it is – to love who you are without needing to possess you. You tell me I am irresistible. And I tell you that you are impossible to not want. Or love. Impossible.
I give up.
My love is not a needy love. It will not beg at your door for scraps of time or attention. It will not need to be fed to live. My love for you is not a desperate, pleading, pulling love. It is patient. It keeps itself occupied. It makes trips to the market, visits the museum and goes to the shop on days you have no time for me.
My love is not a sad, morose love. It will not waste away in morbidness. It does not meddle in the maudlin. It is always a little bit drunk, this love; intoxicated by you.
My love is not sober.
My love is simple. My love is complex. My love is easy to understand because it is mine. It is impossible, because it is yours. I will sit with you and watch the daffodils sway, bobbing like headbangers at a metal concert. My love will be so bold as to take your hand to my cheek and let it rest against my palm. But not so brazen as to lick the wiped chocolate sauce off your fingers. My love is shameless. If they ask, “who is this woman to you? What do you share?” I will answer, “she is my beloved. I am a lover. She shares my my mind, my thoughts, my heart, my skin, my bed, my time on this earth.”
And anyway, it is none of your business.
My love is gentle and knows the language of silence. I will leave you to your days of solitude and return when beckoned by a loving hand. I will learn to read your lips and say nothing in response to the quiet.
My love is yours, if you so choose.
*Cafuné: From Brazilian Portuguese, meaning to tenderly run one’s fingers through someone’s hair.