Musings on... I don't know.

{Truthfully this was in a word document on my computer, and I don't really remember when I wrote it. But I liked it. I'd like to edit it and do something with it someday}

I suppose I’ve known it longer than I like to entertain sometimes. Not that I’ve ever been the perfect portrait of decency, but there’s a certain weight carried with being sure you’re falling in love with someone who is not a part of your very current romantic relationship.

It’s not quite just love, and it’s not quite just romance. It is (figuratively of course) an ever-present wreath of ribbons – all colors of the rainbow. People like to think of the lustful reds and innocent pinks of pure love, but denying envy-green or tearful blues is foolish. It’s so much more than that. It’s not always fun. It’s not always pleasant. But we face those woven moments with brave faces, tight lips, and steadied hearts because we know it is worth it.

We face those moments because we can think back on the times spent holding hands in toy stores, or the long, warm minutes spent in each other’s arms in crowded spaces. We face those moments because when they are finished, they are gone forever, but what comes next might just be infinite; might be kept forever fresh in our memories.

The art of loving is similar to the art of writing in this way. We, as writers, learn to weave stories. We collect thoughts and create ideas. We form characters and place them where they need to be, in our own minds and in our own stories. There is no universal answer. Everything is dependent on how we feel and what we think. What makes us happy or sad. What we desire and what we turn away from. Our stories can become every bit as erotic and complex as our affections, and that may be the sole reason that something has been building inside of me, no matter how silly and over-worded it is.

It’s some ridiculously done way of telling you that I love you, and love so many things about you. You are incredible, no matter how ridiculous you may be at times. You can be a selfish and self-contained man, but, somewhere inside, there is something pushing at the surface. The glimpses are fleeting but I know that it’s there, and I have treasured those moments when it has come out for a glance at the world.

There is a reason for my loving you, and a reason for the urgency of being with you. There was a reason that something clicked when I met you again – something strong enough that I couldn’t stay where I was because I thought of you in the distance and knew I couldn’t stand to keep you that far away from me.
And there is a reason that, through six paragraphs of nonsense and false paths, I felt the need to tell you that I would do so much to have you here with me in my bed tonight, if only I could.