“I think I am going to have a glass of wine. While I cafuné* you.”

“Here is the end of choice. […]
And what is choice except uncertainty of what we are?”

 

I love the romance of you. The somewhat ambiguous nature of you. I love your knowing. Your silent, stoic firmness. Your obduracy. I love the vulnerabilities. The moments of softening. The fleeting times in which you allow me to see you weaker. I smile at how you are reticent when I am forward. How the mention of my need for your lap to lay my head upon is met with a quiet, steely reserve.

And how you say the most staggering things to me (“I stand among those that love you’, for instance) with an almost careless elegance.

I love how simple and straightforward it is – to love who you are without needing to possess you. You tell me I am irresistible. And I tell you that you are impossible to not want. Or love. Impossible.

I give up.

My love is not a needy love. It will not beg at your door for scraps of time or attention. It will not need to be fed to live. My love for you is not a desperate, pleading, pulling love. It is patient. It keeps itself occupied. It makes trips to the market, visits the museum and goes to the shop on days you have no time for me.

My love is not a sad, morose love. It will not waste away in morbidness. It does not meddle in the maudlin. It is always a little bit drunk, this love; intoxicated by you.

My love is not sober.

My love is simple. My love is complex. My love is easy to understand because it is mine. It is impossible, because it is yours. I will sit with you and watch the daffodils sway, bobbing like headbangers at a metal concert. My love will be so bold as to take your hand to my cheek and let it rest against my palm. But not so brazen as to lick the wiped chocolate sauce off your fingers. My love is shameless. If they ask, “who is this woman to you? What do you share?” I will answer, “she is my beloved. I am a lover. She shares my my mind, my thoughts, my heart, my skin, my bed, my time on this earth.”

And anyway, it is none of your business.

My love is gentle and knows the language of silence. I will leave you to your days of solitude and return when beckoned by a loving hand. I will learn to read your lips and say nothing in response to the quiet.

My love is yours, if you so choose.

*Cafuné: From Brazilian Portuguese, meaning to tenderly run one’s fingers through someone’s hair.


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14 thoughts on ““I think I am going to have a glass of wine. While I cafuné* you.”

  1. This is one of the most beautiful things I have ever read. You made me fall in love. “It is patient. It keeps itself occupied. It makes trips to the market, visits the museum and goes to the shop on days you have no time for me.” You couldn’t have put it better. Reading your blogs/tweets has made me calmer as a person. Keep writing. Keep tweeting.

  2. I feel like I need to share this with the one that I love, just because these are my thoughts, my emotions which you have so beautifully worded. What a gift. You make poetry out of prose.

    ” I love the romance of you. The somewhat ambiguous nature of you. I love your knowing. Your silent, stoic firmness. Your obduracy. I love the vulnerabilities. The moments of softening. The fleeting times in which you allow me to see you weaker. I smile at how you are reticent when I am forward. How the mention of my need for your lap to lay my head upon is met with a quiet, steely reserve.”

    x

  3. Awesome is the wword,,,,I saw myself in the frame of my mind ,,,,,,word power ,that’s it,,,,,.megnatism,charisma,dynamo is what can be said,,,,,mwah

  4. I would really like to sit and have tea with you one day. FIrst it was your tweets, and then all these lovely things you write.

  5. what a beautiful piece this is. I’m in a little spot of bother regarding someone and this has been such an immense help. love it. plus I’m following you on twitter. 🙂

  6. this part of the post —> ” My love for you is not a desperate, pleading, pulling love. It is patient. It keeps itself occupied. It makes trips to the market, visits the museum and goes to the shop on days you have no time for me.”

    this is what is a part of me. a part defining me.

    one of the best posts i’ve come across!!

    it just gives a sense of calm.. a sense of reassurance of yourself and your love!!

    “My love is not a sad, morose love. It will not waste away in morbidness. It does not meddle in the maudlin. It is always a little bit drunk, this love; intoxicated by you.”

    🙂 i love it!

  7. I don’t know how you do it. How you make it so delicate, so fragile in it’s strength and faith. Love. The most abused and overused word and yet, you make it poetic without poetry.

    Bombay has not bastardized some of us yet. You relieve me of the fears of losing my idealism and succumb. Maybe in a parallel and possibly less populated universe, but the spirit still lives.
    Your words have such elegance, such a pretty gait. I wait all day to have the moment of absolute quiet at night to read your pieces and revel in them.
    Please don’t ever fall short of words.

    1. Your comment, Aditi, is such a worthy tome. I question if I am a worthy recipient. You must not stop writing. You do some beautiful things when you do.

  8. Everyone has already said most of what I wanted to say, maybe more. When people write about love, it has a sense of foreboding to it, a feeling of an effort and the need to complain and acknowledge that effort. Your writing makes me want love, in a way that’s doesn’t require explanation but the sort that flows through you. Effortless. Maybe I’m just too young and naïve now, but one day I hope I’ll realize all of this in one moment of epiphany. Keep writing. You’re doing much good to the world. 🙂

    Also, I love you. For real. 🙂

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