I can't help it
Sometimes I still need to ask you, "why though? Why do you love me?"
When I pursued you it wasn't out of a sense of entitlement
or even thinking we were a perfect match
I knew very well you might reject me, maybe I wasn't your type
and that was terrifying, but...
I had to ask for you, whether I deserved you or not
And for the first time ever, my love outran my fear, left it alone in the dust
"I'm sorry I was so greedy," I say
"You're so silly," you reply, "there's a million reasons why I love you."
"Even though I'm not as cool as you?" I joke
"Me? Cool?" Your eyes widen, "you've got to be joking."
But I'm not joking.
I wonder without self-pity or self-loathing, but plenty of objective curiosity, what it is that makes you love me.
People tell me it isn't a surprise you love me.
They say it's in my writing, the reason why
It's in my words and it's obvious. Apparently.
But why can't I see it then, when I read back over my words?
It's frustrating but also maybe it's important that I can't
Because in not knowing, in not being able to analyse, dissect to death, overthink and contort the hardcore evidence, the grain of truth...
...I have to have faith
Faith in your feelings for me. Faith that there are many reasons to love me. Faith in myself.
Faith has always scared me, usually I avoid it.
I'm too scared of disappointment and faith always seemed synonymous with that.
But is love still love if the stakes are not so high? If the threats of disappointment and heartbreak are not present?
Probably not. It's not love then, it's something else. Affection maybe. Fondness. adoration.
So I will take faith and disappointment, as long as they always lead me to you
Because you remind me to love myself, the hardest battle of all
"Do you want to me tell you some of the reasons?" you smile
"Sure," I smile back, "why not."