small... trite... inadequate...

..it's ironic that after a dozen or so year-long minutes, these should happen to be the first words my fingers bring to life.

Wendy, trying to capture what I feel for you in the fragile shell of a simple word or phrase is an impossible task; the very idea of it alone seems uncontainable, let alone my actual feelings. Alas, the most vibrant and meaningful word is but a delicate thing that can only inspire sympathetic thought. This is the way of a word. In order for it to be understood by another, it must have already been experienced by another.

How do you explain a painting to the blind? A song to the deaf? I look in the world about us and I see so many people struggling from day to dreary day without a sliver of what we share together. The pantomime love affairs on television are merely lessons on lowering your expectations.

Real Love is the way it feels when you are pressed up against me, surprising me with a hug as I feverishly work on some small bit of code...

It is in the way that you grin when I start improvising lyrics to a song that I don't know the words to...

It is in the radiant glow you wear when we wake up every morning, though you are terribly insistent about how horrible you look.

Real Love is in the way I beam when I watch you cut bits of paper and fabric with your "special scissors", or the way I smile from the other room as I hear you pounding decorative rivets into a Christmas Card.

It is in the way I can almost make you laugh on cue with a well chosen parody or funny face...

It is in the way that we can simply sit and talk about nearly anything under the sun, unafraid of rejection or judgment from each other's eager ears.

Real Love is in the way that we inspire each other to be more than what we are alone. Just being with you makes me a better person.

It is in the way our hands unconsciously seek each other's out whenever we are within touching distance.

It is in the silly gold trinket that hangs around my neck, "ST ENDS".

Wendy, I adore you. I cherish you. I respect you. I love you. You are my best friend, my closest confidant, my most tender lover and joyously, my wife.

How can I possibly contain all that with nothing but words on a page?

Posted by Michael at February 14, 2005 06:02 PM