I’m a very detached kind of lover. 

Not in terms of depth— I adore people profoundly, endlessly, completely—

but in a language foreign to others. I’ll write you snail mail love letters 

and send you five dollars to pick up coffee on your way to work 

and only speak highly of you to my mother. 

I’ll leave you flowers on your birthday and memorize the specifics

of you—your cell phone number and home address and food allergies

and whether or not you’re the hugging type. 

I’m a people person but not in the way you might think. 

I don’t need to sit next to you or drink with you or speak to you every day, 

and sometimes my deepest relationships are once-in-a-blue-moon correspondences, 

pick-me-ups, thinking-of-yous. I only talk to some of my favorite souls once a year. 

There are times I wish I could love in a more physical, less conceptual manner. 

That I could mindlessly enjoy company, that constancy didn’t terrify me. 

But I’m learning to love the way that I love. 

In playlists and poems and how I will always pay attention

to the way that you move, every flutter, every blink, every silly snort of laughter.

I’ll notice every subtlety.

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