…the night I first met you, or that afternoon.
As the sun lazily draped over us. As you held me the first time. Smiled at me, like you cared about me. It was nice, yes. Pleasant. Satisfying. But I didn’t know I’d love you. They say that you just know. The truth? I didn’t know for a long time. Long after the point when they say- if you don’t know- you should leave.
I didn’t know how I felt about you when I invited you over the next time and the next. I didn’t know what I even wanted. Did I want you to love me? I couldn’t even answer that. I was tired and I didn’t want to think about that. I just wanted to feel and be with you.
So, no, it wasn’t love at first sight.
Truth be told, I don’t even know what that feels like. Lust at first sight, yes, but love…? What does that mean, anyway? You were nice to me. Kind, gentle. I suppose that ought to be enough to sweep me off my feet, but, you see, I expected that behavior from anyone. Still naive enough to think most people meant well towards me. I did not fully appreciate it, because I took that for granted.
But you persisted.
I trusted easily and not at all. I wanted comfort and security– but balked when confronted with the possibility. You patiently waited while I sorted out my skittishness and allowed myself to assess what I wanted. You kept being there for me, day after day. I cannot remember our first glances, nor what we were wearing. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is what happened after, what continued to happen on a consistent basis.
Until finally, I saw no other path but the one you took with me.
I could not sleep through the night but with you holding me. If I could not have your physical presence, I fell asleep imagining your arms around me. Nestled sideways in your lap. I knew, no matter the dramas or the petty attacks, that you would stand by and support me. You called me your “source of constant amusement,” and I called you “master.”
All the days, and all the nights.