I used to think that loving someone meant:
Loving them despite their flaws,
loving their body,
loving their eyes,
loving the way their lips move when they speak.

You saw them and loved the thing
they call a body.


I used to believe in love at first sight,
knowing right away,
when you saw someone,
that your souls were meant to mingle
as were your lives.
I used to believe you’d love someone fully
from that first moment.
That through the lens of your love
they would be perfect,
and your love would be all the stronger for it.

Now I know what loving is.

When I first met you
I knew you were dismissive
by your disregard for your appearance.
I saw your birthmark
and your imperfect teeth.
And judged you for it.

I heard your awkward laugh,
And your dismissal of things
that I thought
were important.

And I thought you were foolish and disdainful.

Your body was like those birds which stand
above the water they fish in,
and it was funny.

But we braved trials together.
And I began to know you,
to really see you.
I learned what it meant when you said,
“Eh.”

I learned your handwriting and the way you eat.
Ketchup. Everything drowning in
ketchup.


I saw you.

And before I knew it, I loved you too.
I didn’t see your birthmark.

I loved making you laugh.

I thought it was funny
and endearing
watching you fold yourself
into a Chevy S10.
In other words,
a tiny red truck,
for the layman.
We passed each other notes,
like kids.
We argued,
       all
                  the
                             time.
Now we
       “discuss.”
We eat at the same diner
       every
day.
The waitress brings our drinks
       right when we sit down
                   but not menus.
We sit and don’t talk, for hours.
       in the diner, on the couch.
But
in the car
                   while you drive, because you love to drive
                   (especially in the snow),
                   sometimes I think you talk
                               just to fill
                                           t h e s p a c e.
We drive thirty mintues
       to go to Olive Garden
                   on a Sunday.
                   In a blizzard.
The waitress gave us nine mints.
(So it was worth it.)

You texted me
       (at 2am)
       when your brother-in-law left your sister.
                   and you asked
me
                               what to do.

When I fall asleep in the car
to a ‘patriot’ radio station
you drive slowly
so I’m not disturbed.
You are ridiculous.
And I have also become ridiculous.
Half of what I say,
       are our jokes.
                   So none of it makes sense
                   to anyone else.

The same words fall from our lips
at the same time.
My hand is your hand
and now your thoughts are my thoughts
and we are sameness.

I think I know now what love is.

It’s not despite.
It’s not instead.
It’s not because of.

It’s seeing and accepting those flaws.
Until you don’t see them anymore.