“Why do you love me?” you asked.
I gathered the particles of us,
Hands frantic to the ground,
Scattered memories, and shared idiosynchoricies,
Never allowing my eyes to leave yours.
“Life is a messy process,
And it will kick you wherever it wants.
You don’t get to pick what hurts,
Which is probably for the better because if you could,
You’d would either die from fear of your own future
Or feel guilty for all the agony you dodged that someone else now bears.”
I can tell you think I’m avoiding the question,
Assume I’ve hid into cliches better spoken by a John Greene character, but I promise, Love,
This rambling is tumbling toward a point,
“I love you because you don’t get to pick much in life,
But you get to pick who you love.
And I know there are many kinds of love.
I get it and celebrate the splendid varieties of love out there, but that’s not what this is:
I am referring specifically to the romantic,
one person riding shotgun along your journey,
You get to pick your accomplice.
And I picked the most trustworthy, compassionate,
So, why do I love you?
You are the latitude to my longitude.
The geography of my life is so woven into yours that it’s an entire solar system at this point.
I could leave you for another man,
Or what we have could be gone tomorrow.
But you are the most important person in my life,
And why would I flee to a stranger’s roadmap, when I am part of a galaxy?”
This was the only time I’ve left you speechless.