I could say a thousand reasons why I love you.

I could mention your eyes,

your nose,

your lips,

your hands.

I could say all these things.

But

I would be no more than a liar,

with scissors for a mouth,

cutting the truth into pieces

small enough to fit inside a sentence.

Because how do I tell you

that I love you

without making love smaller than it is?

I will show you.

I’ll show you

how desperately each heart here belongs to you,

how I am moved simply because you are.

How for you

I can be fire, then water.

I can be brimstone and streams.

I can be the cloud and the sun.

I can burn.

I can soothe.

I can become what the moment requires

without asking what remains of me after.

I’ll let you see.

Not just the pretty parts.

Not just the easy parts.

Not just the things I can name

without trembling.

I’ll let you see

the wanting,

the becoming,

the terrible tenderness of giving yourself

to something you cannot hold still.

Because what is the purpose of love

if not pursued fully?

What is the use of loving you

if I must always leave

some part of myself at the door?