Dear The Possibility of Every Other Woman,

I can see me with you.  Us together.  I can picture the life we would share; the wedding we would have; the house and the family…  I can imagine the way we would kiss, and the how we would tell jokes.  The way we would look at each other from across the dinner table.  I know the love you’d give me, and I to you.  I can see the beginning, middle, and end of us as one. 

I can picture all of this, and because of it, my heart is saying “don’t get any closer…” 

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I desire my wife.

I want to meet her and her be here with me. I want her to say everything’s okay, and to be able to hold her whenever I want. My desire is to stare at her like she’s the only woman I’ve ever seen and tell her she’s beautiful. And she lights up.

There’s something about being with one person to grow old with. Someone to share this life with. I don’t want to have to go through it alone anymore. I have friends. The best friends in the world, but there’s nothing like falling asleep with someone you’re in love with. Knowing that you’re holding on to more than a warm body. You’re holding on to the person you’ve dreamed for. My one. Someone who I can speak straight to, and know that they aren’t judging me, and it’s not a battle of pride but of pure love. A reflection of God. Someone to affirm me. Someone to say I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Someone that doesn’t just see me, but sees the man I will one day be sculpted into. I desire the woman in the car ride home with me at night. Not someone on the phone, and not a friend’s house I just left—someone in the passenger side laughing with me about the party we left, until we get back to our place.

I want someone to share these covers with…

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The idea of love for me has always been something like a verb: to be obtained.  

When we’re younger, love is that folded note passed between the aisles of science class, having your best emotions nervously expelled from your pen to her heart.  Or love is raking the leaves in autumn before Dad gets home so he can say how proud of me he is.  No matter the situation, or the delineation of the word, love for me has always been an action synonymous with work.

It has only been recently when the breakthrough came that love is not something to strive for, but rather something that is there.  It is not an action at all, but rather a personification.  Love exists as air in an elevator; where the very thing I need most consumes me, yet I can’t wait to rush out of opening doors to get to my floor.

I’m learning too how bad we are as a society of accepting something for free.  I feel a lot better when what I own is something I’ve earned.  For me, it keeps the balance at Even between work and accomplishment.  For me, I always feel off when I’m just given something, and can’t pinpoint where in my life I earned whatever this “thing” is.  My inner voice likes to remind me quietly “Okay, now you owe them one.”

But scoreboards don’t exist in love…

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(Source: jasonotoole)