If I can look at it objectively, which sometimes I’m able. I realize that for every harsh preacher I’ve found who walks away from their own bullshit, I’ve found someone who was soft and gentle. Not just someone I thought possessed those qualities.
I remember the feeling of waiting for those words. Each time. Waiting for the space for those words. The I Love You. That final feeling of safety with someone you care for. I remember waiting for it. The sealing up of any unsurety between the two of you. And saying that it was okay to stay. Okay to build. To rest, or repair. Either way, to move forward together.
Sometimes risks pay off. And sometimes they end up being the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Sometimes they pay off for a bit before they fucking kill you. They make you feel damn good for a while. As long as you’re actin’ right. And sometimes shit just ain’t fair. End of story.
My perspective on love has not changed. I don’t believe that Love is a dirty word. Nor do I believe that my love is some filthy disease to be caught by somebody. If I were to let myself be convinced of that by someone who had no feelings for me, I would be living in a well-deserved hell for the rest of my life.
I thought today about the time I asked you what your favorite flowers were. I was so excited. And I remembered how I felt when I knew I couldn’t send them to you. Not then. Because I couldn’t ask your address. I didn’t want even the smallest of reason for you to be uncomfortable with me. Ever. I laughed a little at the irony of that in particular. Not a lot. Just a little.