Sometimes I read her words and think I don't understand love. I think that, maybe, I missed something. I think that, maybe, I've been too cynical. Sometimes I wish I had that in me, that love, like sadness, that can seep into everything if you let it. And I wonder if I'll ever change.
Then I think about love, and I think of the smell of sawdust and snow. Opening that door with the three little window panes. Sharing a bedroom and talking in the dark. Patchouli and spices. Guitars and champagne. Watching those memories, packed so tight, escape slowly and finally find a place to sleep. Hidden pictures of skinny dipping and late night road trips. Canyons, castles, cities. The feeling of saying goodbye. Marking time by moments apart, not calendars. Quilts folded on couches. There are tears sometimes, screaming sometimes, but why waste your sometimes?
My love isn't better, it isn't as consuming. It's not that can't-breathe, got-fire-and-butterflies-in-your-stomach, cry-all-night-'cause-you-can't-live-without-each other kind of love. I couldn't live that way. My love is a quieter thing, melancholy at times, but usually, it's right where it needs to be.
