Come and be human with me, eat nothing that means us both leaving the house, sit on the floor in strange places, and sleep in familiar beds.

I will make art, not for you, but about you, speak truths while you’re sleeping and wake you with hands, we will dive deeply into one anothers, and stay out of our own weary heads.

We will argue in glorious fireworks, I will throw words, you will break my guitar, remind ourselves that it’s something worth burning, and be all the better for making up.

Come and eat cereal late at night, in silence, undressed on the kitchen counter, be far too tired for tomorrows long stroll, in love, just enough for the waking up.

Come, in your own time, and human be,

Yours politely,

Lonely me.

Most of us were raised to think love is fire, passion, and prolonged bouts of giddiness and strained emotions. The quieter kind of love looks kinda boring on the surface, even cool-hearted. Nobody wants that at first. Some people never learn how wonderful it is to be friends with a lover or spouse, to know that here is someone you can be yourself around, and they will love you anyway, sometimes not in spite of your worse characteristics, but because of them. That kind of lover will stay with you through thick and thin, will make you feel valued always, and will make any disastrous occasion seem less so because you are with that person.