is syrup and butter drizzled over Saturday morning pancakes
It's taking three hours to go all over town to find your favourite candy, even though I realize that you just had dental surgery, and green apple Airheads are probably not allowed.
Love is falling asleep in your arms, comfortable despite the fact that the merry-go-round beneath us is cold and rusted; despite the swarms of audacious gnats that surround us, like tendrils of thick fog that muffle the sounds of the distant softball fields.
Or, maybe it's me, hiding in my closet, crying on the phone, because I did something that scared me and you, too, but you're strong enough for the both of us, for a little while.
Love is feeling hurt that you weren't there when I needed you, and it's the hollow bruise on my heart that blossoms when you're the one hurting...whether I caused it or not.
So many things I want to tell you before you leave. I love you. Three little words that carry the weight of the world on butterfly wings. And when you say them, to someone, it's like taking your soul in your hands and saying Look. This is who I am. I am giving it to you freely. No strings attached. It's scary - one of the most frightening things in the human experience, is to let someone know that you love them. To let them see you truly, as you are. And to know that they accept what you are giving them, and that they are sacrificing the same for you...that knowledge is nectar and ambrosia, and bread and milk - food of the divine and susentance of the physical. Combined into a single, emotional certainty that I keep locked within my soul. A constant candle in the dark.
I guess, what I really want...need to say, is