I want to capture us in words. I sit down and I open the screen and type and type and type and revise and edit and delete and it never happens. I want so badly to put us into words. There has to be some words, some where that will describe us, but I can never find them in any combination. I peer at the line wondering what I should say and what belongs only to us. The line wavers and I dance back and forth around it, never sure how much I can say or want to say.
And the things I feel as though I can’t say are the ones I want to say the most.
I try to paint a picture for you, for me, in words. I know that love isn’t always enough. That sometimes, even the best of friends and partners have to part ways. I want so badly to leave something with my words that both of us can look at to remind ourselves. No matter what happens. That it was here and real and beautiful and happy, but I can never wrap my fingers around it. It’s elusive and filmy and soft. A lightening bug floating just beyond my grasp. A shell rolling just a step too far in the surf.
I can conjure a picture of how you look. How tall you are. I can give the name of your cologne. I can describe the length and color of your hair, the general color of your eyes. I could measure your eyelashes. I could take a picture of your hands. I could provide all of these things as proof of you, but that’s not really you. Not really.
You’re the weight of an arm flung across me in sleep and the little growling noise you make in the back of your throat when I roll over to find you. You’re the feel of your skin under my fingers when I rub your back to put myself to sleep. You’re the curls that grow at the top of your neck when your hair grows long, sifting through my fingers.
You’re a hand settling on the small of my back to guide me or to stop me from crashing into you as we move through the kitchen or orbit around each other as we take care of the house and our babies. You’re an indulgent smile that crinkles up your eyes. You’re a chuckle. A chortle. You’re fingers that wrap around mine. You’re a thumb rubbing across the back of my hand. You’re peaceful moments in the early dawn or the late night and the sound of the ocean just outside. You’re a head tipped back with the sun in your face and a baby sleeping on your shoulder.
You’re so much. I could write forever. For pages and pages. Books worth. Hundreds of thousands of books worth. I’d never catch it all. There aren’t enough words. The rasp of the whiskers on your chin over the top of my head. The way your upper lip curls up on the right side when something’s displeased you. The way you deny that your upper lip curls up on the right side when something’s displeased you. You’re just so much.
You’ll say it’s not true. You’ll say you are. But I know that I am. I’m the lucky one.
Thirteen years ago, we said I do. Very informally. That doesn’t matter. The only thing I miss is the pictures we should have. The love I feel for you naked on my face. I want that. Because it will say things to you my words never will and maybe captured in that second you’ll see how much I love you.