Sorry I was late. Rather late. But not you, oh no, you were right on time as always, and waiting! Don't ask me why, but I felt like writing another letter to you. And yes you can imagine this conversation in whispers under a sheet, I'll give you that, being a wife and all that. Knowing me as you do, you may duly imagine my snorts of shrill laughter at places you deem appropriate.
I don't know how to break this to you, but, I love you. Let that sink in. I love you.
Now, I am not one of those who love like they were born to love. Or the ones who live to be able to love, and love to be able to live. I think I just live our love, and I don't think I can live without our love. They have enough lunatic lovers on the planet to last them another IMDB. But I am fine with letting Romeo breathe easy in his grave about his legacy, no insecure competition here. I just love you the way I love you. But let me explain that.
I don't mean I'm not cupid-eyed stupid, or truly, madly, deeply yours. I am, I am in love like God made love. But I love you better than crazy, I love you mind-and-soul. I love you water-and-fish, not ship-and-iceberg. I love you heart-and-heartbeat, not die-and-live-forever. I belong to you like prayer belongs to gods, like wind belongs to poets, like Krsna belongs to Radha. I am cruelly, badly, cheekily yours.
I can grab stars and crystals for you, I can catch fire burning in your intensity, and I can sure as hell write the cheesiest poem about your black tresses made of the night. But I guess what would really make it worthwhile for me is that stolen look of yours from above the coffee mug, at a late hour really late in life. Or the better hours of a grey-haired, sleepyhead morning in a wood cabin by the river. Or a chirpy home full of grand-children talking trash about their parents to us. Yeah, that about completes it. Given the sex on the rooftop later that year.
I'm a big man in my head. With a tiny, minuscule sense of responsibility, little patience, and a rather compulsive thing for cheap, insensitive humor. But one couldn't call me emotionless, for my feelings are frozen tears. Instead of emotional, call me heartfelt. Instead of cheesy, cheeky. And you? You, my dove, are my warm chocolate fudge! You are the fire to my freeze, the cheese in my cheeks, the freedom in my fumble.
More than made for each other, I think we were made together. You know how questions and answers are made together? How the river and the shore are made together, how a man and woman must have been made together. More than two pieces of a puzzle, I think we are two broken halves of a piece lost on the floor.
The way you look at me hasn't changed since the first time I looked into your eyes. Wait, scratch that, too cheesy. Let me rephrase. The way you check me out hasn't changed since the first time I caught you ogling at me. Hah, better.
I love eating fruits, I love going to the gym, I love waking up early, and I love cribbing about it all. Calling you names in the morning when you poke holes in my head like a woodpecker cuckoo, making stinky faces when you kiss me all chirpy, threatening an apple for its life that you gave me to eat, I wouldn't know how to show my love if not for these little gestures. And you stand there smiling, sit there in satisfaction, as I make a fantastic fool out of myself.
I don't love you because I like you. I barely like you only because I love you. God save you if I didn't have this fuzzy, filling, fudge in my heart every time I thought of you. If only our gazes weren't lock and key... sigh.
My emotional, sensitive, loving wife, I will always love you. My brilliant, beautiful, balanced wife, I want to make babies with you.
Talking of babies, do you want to try the balcony, or the roof tonight?