These are the sweet things I hold near: how you danced when you put your coat on. When you burnt four batches of scrambled eggs in a row [each slam of the trash can lid louder, matching the bubbling of my laughter]. Standing in line for coffees across the street. You always walked me to the bus. Your socks, uneven heights, half way up your calf or bunched around your ankle. And in the summer, we slept on the floor of an empty apartment, not a single piece of furniture or food, just a single sleeve of bagels.
You were playing me a record, I was waiting for the corn to roast. You were telling me secrets, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor. You watched me leave the room, I caught you from the corner of my eye. You were running your thumb across my shoulder, I was dizzy from the brand new summer, my heart in full bloom.
I'm not sure which of these is actually the case: that I haven't, won't or can't let you go. Each are surprisingly unique: is it a case of simply not getting around to it as of yet, or defiant refusal, or an impossibility of immunity against the shiver down my back and leap of my stomach when I hear your name?
I want few things, but they are all unlikely [to make manifest my songs, my writing, your heart, to summarize]. And I am wondering if that makes me irresponsible to go after one or most of them. I am gripped by the uncertainty so much that it makes it all seem foolish. But then there are the moments of being so sure: when I forego sleep and uncover a new story inside of me, when I lose a whole day to write another song that captures a former fleeting thought, after walking all of the sidewalks of this city with you. Those moments bring the same assurance as the earth hinting at summer weather (it will surely come), taking a flight without a plan (it will surely be grand), drifting on a boat in the middle of the lake (this is surely where you are meant to be).
You can tell if it is true love by bringing your attention to your hands: Love is not to be held with a fist, no clinging or desperate grasping. It is in the fingertips gently brushing along spine and hips; it is the tracing of your partner's lips in the grey hue of dawn; it is in the reaching for the extra grocery bag to lighten the load on the way home; it is in their brushing of your hair out of your eyes; it is in the joining of your partner's hands in thunderous applause as you go off about your day.
I feel like all of your stories are hidden in this wild deep forest inside of you, and there will be a long, quiet walk with the chorus of snapping twigs in that heavy dark soil to get to the very middle, the whistle of the breeze in the bottom branches. My hand goes often to your chest where you keep it all, and I can almost see it, heavy bark of cedar and oak wrapping around your stories and your dreams, the things that you find funny and the things that have disappointed you, the people who you love and used to love, the cities you've seen and the cities you'd like to visit. I'll pitch the tent and you make the fire, I'll meet you here in the wild mountain landing of your heart.