I began writing this last year. Many of the words were complicated then. They were ruined in my mouth. Blood dyed their ends.
But all of this has been to write a few sentences, simply, assuredly, without the need to compile anymore at least for a day. Today, for example.
So, after 365 days of a lot of talking and misunderstandings and fighting and jokes and deep, giving laughter that felt like it could end it all, I write: I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you like the everyday that kisses the promise of the next day beside you. I love you as the wave does in a brutal, indelicate dance with the stuck feet of the land. I love you like a family pet soaked in sunshine and on a bed that it is not supposed to be snoring on. I love you like love I have not had, one that has been denied to me most of my life, and that has made it hard for me to say I love you. I love you softly. I love you tenderly. I love you unlike love for this must be more than it. How can it be described before us? How can the word experience the easy joy, the untidy difficulties, the sweet sweetness where I will be fairy and wild and fair and wilderness among your legs that are smoother than the rocks we’ve tried skipping in Italy, your wit that catches me off guard, that shows me that if not for you, then there would be no love again, your head, that throbbing terrible thinking thing, that sometimes my hands fall upon in uneven, physical love. I love you for I realize that you told me you only say what you mean, and this is you now, saying these words on your lips, saying my words like a bell that could shatter if only to have you repeat it once more: I love you.
I will write no more. This is all I am. Here, feverish, sick with yearning in this small coughing year, is all the days that have ever been, all the love that has ever been loved.
And still, there is more to write, to say, to make simpler yet.