He listens--
Like a priest to confession,
Like a perfectionist to praise,
Like a child to the jingle of an ice cream truck.

And as waves of nearly psychotic personal reflection come spilling out of my mouth in the form of an attempted conversation,
I find that I am searching in his eyes,
Pleading for his rescue from my own awkwardness and stupidity,
And the self-loathing that accompanies identifying such qualities within yourself.

And I know,
By the look he returns,
That one of two things must be true;

Either he has no idea how just how deep my stream of random and obtrusively odd curiosities and ponderings really is...

Or he does know,
And he just loves me.

And then, I wonder what kind of idiot he must be to fall for someone so grossly imperfect,
So terribly undeserving of adoration and devotion.

And I supposed, he must be my kind of idiot.

Because in a mind filled with ambitions and information and drive and intrigue,
He always makes room for me.

And as it turns out, I like myself more for him loving me.
Because memories of him increase my value infinitely.

I cannot buy them or remake them.
If I let them go, they are gone forever.
Unforgettable memories are the currency of love.