Do not love me quietly.

Bring me singing from city rooftops until your lungs labor for mercy. Bring me breathless. I want nothing to do with muted affection. Spare your secrecy for the girl who wants to be kept one. This magic of mine cannot be reduced to an undertone.

Do not love me in whispers.

But at full volume. Love me in constant crescendo. In kitchen fights and car door slams and lilting laughter when we make things right again. In road trip orchestras and morning arguments when we run late for important days. Forget how to mumble for me. I want to be loved like opening night, like midnight storms in July, like the footsteps of giants I used to imagine trailing our car as a little girl. Love me until I can see the outlines of my world tremble in fear like I did back then, even the sturdiest windows threatening ruin.

Blur away the particulars with noise. Love me in your highest pitch. Love me until the ears of time split, until every other phone line to my heart disconnects in heated jealousy, until even the giants cower in terror.

Love me like that.

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