On Love

It's not an act,
an illusion,
a mere infatuation of youth
(to be snickered at later,
and how young we were).
It's not that I want to be the one to leave,
that my pride demands I own these terms,
make these rules.

Because I do  not.

It is that you have been with me for so many years and never faltered. Even in my grittiest slums I knew who you were, and you reminded me who I was when I couldn't remember, myself. It is that while nostalgia of the things we were is beautiful, it is not why I love you. Rather, I want only more years of new adventures, of new paths, of knowing you better still. It is that with you, I am me, and it seems I did not even know that person until we met. It is that the coffee tastes better in your presence, the air smells realer, the life makes more sense. It is that when I run, you remain.

I want to be near you, until we are out of things to teach each other. I want our parting to be one of satisfaction, of there was nothing more to give, of I cannot love you like that anymore and then I want to be done. I want my life to be indistinguishable from yours.

That is all.