Karen

Karen,

You are not perfect.

Neither am I.

 

You are not

an archetype,

a projection;

a cipher for my

more complicated need

for companionship or affection.

 

You do not complete me.

But when I am with you,

I feel more myself

than any other time.

 

And when you smile,

there is such a thrill in me.

And you are not the stars,

but I often see you shine.

 

I love your eyes.

The way they catch and mirror the light.

And laughter between us feels like

the most natural thing.

 

And you are not the sun,

but I feel warm when I am with you, nonetheless.

And, although there is only space

above us and around us,

when you are there

in some way I feel blessed.

 

You are not life,

but you make me feel alive.

And I know that you don’t believe me

when I say that you're amazing,

but I know that I am amazed by you.

Always have been.

 

 You are not

an embodiment of purity

or a vessel of the highest feelings.

You are not

some abstract construct

of unachievable, unrealistic ideals.

You are as real as a cigarette

or the pints we drink

when we’re together

sometimes.

 

You make me think about what it is that I want

and why I think that I want it.

 

And yesterday,

in the hospital,

with my stressed chest pains,

surrounded by everything,

I realised what that is.

 

Karen,

we’re both going to die.

 

Life is short.

I love you.

 

Why don’t we

be together while we can

and be alive?