In other words: I love you.

Frank Sinatra, “Fly Me to the Moon”

I will never be ashamed by the gravity of which I manifest my love. I’ve heard others mumble their concerns. That my way of doing it equates to placing a butcher knife into the fleshy hands of a small child in roller skates perched atop a sloping driveway. My love an accident waiting to happen. My love the potential of disaster given wheels. But when it comes to you I do not obey reason. I refuse to. If I did I’d be a mortal of immeasurable foolishness. What I’m saying is I don’t care what their voices whisper. It’s white noise to me, an ambient hum in the background I can choose to ignore. I want to love you like murdering rationality. Like not thinking twice about believing in forever. Like being deemed illogical and unrealistic and capricious. They will laugh. They will complain through gritted teeth. They will grow to hate how I chase what isn’t yet mine. But I planned our wedding down to the centerpieces and floral arrangements the first time I saw you. I sat down next to you and saw us growing old on the backs of my eyelids. I named our children before I stepped foot in your childhood room. And I don’t care. I am not ashamed. I am the woman that loves you and this is how I will.

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