For You I Would Jump First

I cannot love carefully. 

Unlike you, I do not prepare for it. You are knee pads and escape plan and desperate Sign of the Cross. You triple-check and strategize and never leap without certainty of safety. I am not like you. I am freefall and blind faith and trusting the parachute without checking to see if it is even tethered to my body at all. You love me anxiously. I love you recklessly.

It is hard, reconciling this. I cradle you closer than skin and dream of our house by the bay, pale yellow shutters and little ones in the yard, picking weeds and gathering ladybugs. Sunday mornings, cross-country road trips to the canyons, to the other ocean, I see it all with you. You keep your eyes shut, lashes flitting, lost in some other dream. 

You fear making a mistake out of eagerness, miscalculation, too much risk. I fear not risking enough. For you I put all of my eggs in one basket and swing, letting time decide the trajectory. I do not fear the landing. I would rather trust gravity than waste potential.

I cannot love with reservations. 
But you do and you can. You calculate the geometry of your plunge. You are seatbelts and weighing consequences and guarantee. But I still love you. I can jump first, nosediving without a net to catch me, waiting at the bottom just to give you a safe place to land.

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