Oh, I've loved people, but I've loved them alone. To be in love with someone, you have to be in love with someone, in love together. In love, as in life, I have always been alone.
I love many things. I love cold leftover pancakes and pizza and margaritas. I love Christmas trees and Christmas music and Christmas lights and Christmas cards.
I love swimming and floating but I do not love waves. I love shearing through the summer stillness on a bicycle downhill, but I do not love wind.
I love the desert. I love to travel. I love to write.
I love to sleep. I love to lie in bed.
I love to lie in bed with you.
I love to kiss your face.
I love to sing with the radio.
I love to drive.
I love driving you home.
I love the way you smell.
I love to make things.
I love to make you happy.
I love watching the moon rise while it's still light out, and I love to stay up until its last, huge, bright moments hanging in a black blanket sky.
I love the sunrise.
I love pink and red and purple and turquoise and royal blue and bright yellow and slate gray.
I love metal and wood and ceramic and tile and mirrored glass.
I love texture and flavor and sensation.
I love animals, domesticated and wild.
I love in my dreams.
I love without trying.
I love your breath on my ear.
I love your eyelashes on my neck.
I love thinking about you.
I love being alone, and I love all of these things on my own, when I wake and sleep and hike and eat.
I wish that someone wanted to try and love me back, and love something with me.
Plight of the Independent Woman
All Is Full of Love
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