I don’t crave that Valentine Hallmark kind of love.
That complete me, save me kind of love.
I don’t pine away for grand gestures
and white table cloths and candlelight.
I’ve no need for that clinging kind of love.
That lonely together, good enough kind of love.
You won’t seduce me with hollow promises.
I need the kind of love that can’t be tied up in ribbons and pretty things.
I crave that enduring kind of love,
that mountain moving kind of love.
I long for that when the shit hits the fan,
you’re still there holding my hand kind of love.
Oh, Dear Lover,
Take my hands in yours
for I seek not to be adorned with diamonds,
only with the threading of your fingers through mine.
Seduce me with your quiet understanding of me.
Rise where I fall and I’ll do the same when you slip beneath.
Let us perfect our ebb and flow beyond what can be hidden by sheets.
Leave your sweet nothings at the door
and whisper only your secret wishes.
Lay not only your wanting hands,
but your most precious dreams on me.
And don’t worry if you can’t find the words,
our language is not limited to syllables.
We are a long way from starry-eyed adolescents
with perfection and pedestals
tied so tightly to our expectations of true love.
No, I will love you as you are now – a warrior.
And though I crave your adoration and uplifting,
I was never built for pedestals.
Perfection is not in my nature.
All I ask is let me love you.