I fell in love with the laughter you gave me.
The gurgling, rushing bubbles that so effortlessly escaped my throat every time we conversed
conversation that varied from the depths of the true complicated vines within my brain,
well hidden by the thick coarseness of my hair,
to the fluffy lightness of “What did you have for dinner today?”
Didn’t matter what you said it just had to come from your lips.
I fell in love with the way you cared for me.
A raging care that would fight for me against multitudes if I were in trouble,
and would fight for me even against the personal self-doubt
that would intermittently sprout within me when watered by my own fears.
I fell in love with your scent,
I fell in love with you.
But you did not fall.
I gave to you from a glass spilling over at the brim, the red wine of my love:
dark and rich and unfiltered and pumping and pure
expecting that you would become intoxicated, and your head would spin,
your knees become weak,
your brow break out in sweat and
your reservations become fewer.
Yet, there you stood, only but slightly tipsy.
You watched me dance for you and to you
watching me with that, your sober judgement,
ensuring still that I did not stop the movement of my hips;
watching me fall into the abyss of your waters
knowing full and well that you did not intend to get wet.
And so I implore of you now,
do not, since the days and months have passed by,
and my complicated vines have slowly erased your memory and forgotten your scent,
return to shatter this peace.
Do not awaken in me yet again those feelings of neglect and wonder, and self-disappointment,
If you have no intention of requiting my love.
If you have no intention of being under the influence of my wine
If you have no intention of getting wet.