I love to hear you
tell me that I'm sexy,
pose me for private photo sessions,
pick out my lingerie,
look down my shirt...
but I miss the way
that you used to call me...
"Has anyone told you yet
that you're beautiful today?
Hey baby, it's 12:01 and
I haven't told you yet today
that I love you..."
And I love the way you
come to find me if
I'm in another room too long,
or the way you tell me
I'm "important" to you...
But I miss, "I love you,"
the simple words you only say
once every month or two,
then become emotionally
constipated again...
After two years together,
the words should come
more easily than that.
I wish you could say "it"
as easily as you do to
animals and children.
And I love the wild erotic passion
we share in the bedroom,
the moans in the night,
the never-ending waves
of excrutiating pleasure,
the way we crash into
each other and can
never get enough...
I have never been with
someone so in tune
with my desires...
But I long for the gentleness
of making sweet love;
massages, caresses,
kisses on the mouth,
whispering sweet words
in each others ears.
And I love how comfortable
we are with our silences,
an occasional comment
on a funny commercial,
me doing crossword puzzles,
you with the morning paper...
or both of us in bed
reading by the soft lamplight...
But I miss the way
we used to confide our
deepest feelings, fears, dreams,
what was in our souls.
We don't really talk anymore.
I miss the romance, the dating,
the phone calls, the flowers
you used to tuck behind my ear.
You live in my house now.
We do chores together,
go grocery shopping, pay bills,
take care of kids, cook meals...
Two years together is too short
to have already lost the romance.
I have never lost it...
I long to write love poems,
bring you flowers, cook
candlelight meals for you,
massage you with oils,
be able to say "I love you"
every single day without
fearing I will go too far,
without you getting that
deer in the headlights look.
Please, let me inside.
I won't hurt you like she did.
Love is worth taking chances,
and ours doesn't have to be...
a secret that we both know
but can't say louder than
a drunken whisper.