The Freckles In Our Eyes Are Mirror Images
I don’t know what inspires me to write, and even more that I don’t know what inspires me to write what I write. It’s strange, because I’ve given this thought many times. Even when I have nothing to say, sometimes I crave the smell of pen ink on paper, miss the feeling of the page beneath my hand, quivering under the weight of my words. I free-write a lot, as a result of this craving. I stop all directed, intentional thought and concentrate on the sensation of writing, and let whatever pours out pour out.
And other times, I miss the feeling of typing. Even when my typing would serve no useful purpose. So again, I look for something to write, I seek out things to inspire me. I explore, with keen, intoxicated motivation, for something to help me create the written word. Perhaps all I do is fill silence with nonsense, drivel, and diatribes better left to the catacombs in my mind. I don’t know. All I know, is that I feel compelled to write.
On that note, I have no idea where this came from, but I wrote it free-form. It sort-of spilled out. I imagine it’s an impromptu love-letter to the man who would be my husband (if I had one, hehe). Read on!
"Oh love, I would watch you sleep from a doorway, and even if then it was already obvious that I am in love with you, this action would cause me to remember the falling into love, and fall in love with you all over again. If all we had was the five minutes in a doorway each day, I would make that five minutes memorable enough to last a lifetime, with something as subtle as a knowing smile, a breathtaking kiss that leaves you longing for the end of the day, the gentle sweep of my hand on yours, a playful squeeze. I will never pause to take a moment to try to understand the foolish woman who had you last. I will never doubt– I love all in. When my soul feels heavy and burdened, and when my mind is grey with the static of the universe, I will think of your smile, and the scratchy gruff of your face, and the tenderness of your touch, and it will lift me. I will recall the votes of confidence, and the times you know whether or not I need help (because you believe I am a strong woman), and the panic in your being when you fear for me. I will remember how you told me I was beautiful on days when I felt as far away from beautiful as I could get.
Oh, love. I want to text you secret naughty things that will distract you all day (but in a good way), so that I can expect an evening of loving the hours away. I want to watch your face in nothing but moonlight when you try to sleep, all wrapped up in me and bedsheets, laughing at my silly, strange, random jokes, and planning the next day. I want to bask in the untainted joy of the sound of your heart beating under my ear as we sleep, and the scent of you on the sheets and pillows when you’ve gotten up to go to work, and I’ve got the day off.
Oh, love, I want to hike deep into the wilderness and get bitten by mosquitoes with you. I want to fly to Cairo with you to see the pyramids of dead pharoas, where we’ll always check for scorpions in our boots. I want to make mountains of memories, of unforgettable things.
More than anything, I want to declare that stupid fights mean nothing, that when I complain that the toilet roll never makes it onto the holder, what I’m really saying is that I have passion for you. When I’m complaining that I always do the dishes (even when you do the vacuuming) what I really mean is that you look great, elbows-deep in dishsoap, and that after they’re clean, we’re going to move onto better things. Our stuff, our squabbles, our conflicting schedules, they’re meaningless when you hold them up in the light of loving you. It’s just me and you, and we’ll work through and find a way.
And if you want to undo your tie and want to hang out with the guys, I’d be glad to get lost for awhile, or I could simply be one of the guys too. I’ll learn to play poker, so I can take more than just your socks from you. And them? They can pay for rounds of beers (that I know I only get to watch you drink, but I think I can handle that– they can keep me in coffee, after all, someone needs to drive), when we defeat them with our pairs and flushes.
Oh love, you’re my protector, my best friend, my confidant, the person who can depend on and trust in me implicitly. (You’re so manly when you kill the spiders for me, and you think I’m cute when I scream. And you think the fact that my Mom calls me "Sassafrass" is the most unbelievably sweet thing you’ve ever heard). You can trust me to call you out on your bullshit, none of us are perfect (especially me, for a day or two in 28-day intervals), and you’ll want someone there to help you get your head on straight, to be honest when you’ve taken to a momentary arrogance that isn’t very modest.
Love, you never have to wonder what I love you for, it’s a package-deal situation. A great-looking guy is about as appealing as Buckley’s cough syrup when he’s a cocky jackass, so worry not. If I am in love with you, that’s a good sign that you’re the model to follow, and not the other way around. You stimulate all of my senses, and for that I thank you.
And oh, love, even though it is more the things you do than the things you say, and even when it is obvious that I am mad for you, I will tell you I love you every day, and determine never to leave angry. (You never know which "See you soon" will be the last)."
Stick your hands inside of my pockets, keep them warm while I’m still here, tell them this love hasn’t changed me, hasn’t changed me at all. Stick your heart inside of my chest, keep it warm here while we rest, tell them this love hasn’t changed me, hasn’t changed me at all.