The One Who Loves Alone

I've never been in love with anyone.

Oh, I've loved people, but I've loved them alone. To be in love with someone, you have to be in love with someone, in love together. In love, as in life, I have always been alone.

I love many things. I love cold leftover pancakes and pizza and margaritas. I love Christmas trees and Christmas music and Christmas lights and Christmas cards.

I love swimming and floating but I do not love waves. I love shearing through the summer stillness on a bicycle downhill, but I do not love wind.

I love the desert. I love to travel. I love to write.

I love to sleep. I love to lie in bed.

I love to lie in bed with you.

I love to kiss your face.

I love to sing with the radio.

I love to drive.

I love driving you home.

I love the way you smell.

I love to make things.

I love to make you happy.

I love watching the moon rise while it's still light out, and I love to stay up until its last, huge, bright moments hanging in a black blanket sky.

I love the sunrise.

I love pink and red and purple and turquoise and royal blue and bright yellow and slate gray.

I love metal and wood and ceramic and tile and mirrored glass.

I love texture and flavor and sensation.

I love animals, domesticated and wild.

I love in my dreams.

I love without trying.

I love your breath on my ear.

I love your eyelashes on my neck.

I love thinking about you.

I love being alone, and I love all of these things on my own, when I wake and sleep and hike and eat.

I wish that someone wanted to try and love me back, and love something with me.

Related:
Plight of the Independent Woman
All Is Full of Love

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