I Can Hear Your Fear of Losing Me Cracking

I know it’s not really the answer you’re looking for Ginger, but if the Buddha knew what he was talking about and Mother Teresa had it right, then I think it’s not who or what we love that holds us like a lover in a long t-shirt in the kitchen each morning while we’re waiting for our coffee to brew, but the fact that,

lovely or not, we can take stock of where we are each moment, and that this practice enacts a kind of compassion and friendship that lays the groundwork for what might be a truer more eternal kind of love.

It’s true I’m not sure who or what I’m supposed to love these days, Ginger, you included sometimes, and I know this makes me not just unromantic, but less concrete to you, because you can’t smell my intentions and commitments when you lie awake in our bed, the bergamot and ginger deodorant you love me to wear not making any of it more real and permanent,

and yeah, sometimes our making love feels like it’s just a mist that shows up outside the garage and is gone by the time the sun hits the birdbath.

But sometimes I can hear your fear of losing me cracking like sticks being walked on in the woods, and I want to tell you Ginger, it’s in those moments I think you’ve already lost me and have yet to either realize or be mindful of that.

The way I see it sweetie, when we want from others, we’re really roaming around ourselves half-delirious, secretly hoping to be moved by a part of ourselves we won’t see coming, when actually it’s the hoping for that when it seems pointless to do so that enacts a kind of promise and generosity, that wraps its legs around us and pulls us in, and I think it is in this meaninglessness, the idea of there really being an us to love upon at all, well,

I’m sorry but that kind of love seems not just misguided and inaccurate, but like watching a movie about a movie, and neither are very good.

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