I’ve never been one to write love poetry, or even love letters. True, I am exceedingly sentimental and verbally demonstrative, and there are one or two pretty abysmal love songs to be plonked out on the acoustic guitar alone at night… but expressions of my affection and admiration have a history of getting all tangled into this confusing allegory that makes no sense to anyone but me.. sometimes. Or—surprisingly more often—they appear in very plain speaking. I love you. I miss you. You bring me joy. (Was it Shakespeare who claimed that 1-syllable words were purest truth?)
But lately… well, maybe its being married and having this cloudy idea of love be made so real, so joyfully binding. Maybe it’s some chemical reaction caused by a combined reading/review of the Song of Solomon, Emily Dickinson, Sting lyrics, and a ridiculous book of terribly written and pleasurably guilty stories my sister left at my parent’s house when she moved out in 1997 entitled “The Year’s Best Erotica.” Whatever it is, I can’t seem to help myself these last few months.
It’s as though this unexplainable urge to articulate feeds some fire. I find myself continually scribbling on a note pad on my desk or adding to this never ending document saved inconspicuously as “Writing Stuff.” I find myself cobbling, “darling” and “mine,” with “smooth-cheeked” and “forever.” I want to create a thousand new ways to say “you are perfect for me.” Words find each other, couple, and birth more words, more love, more desire, and a more intense need to define it, declare it, make it sing from the paper.
Isn’t that funny?