I was born three months early.  Well, actually, it was a little bit more than that, but you know that already.  There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t be alive—and even more why I should have about a thousand problems.  I don’t.  I was lucky.  I’m a fighter.  Not an unnecessary one, mind you—not a person who picks fights on a whim.  I don’t believe in needless, senseless arguments.  I’m discerning.  I fight for the things I believe in.  And, well, I’ve always believed in you.

And you know, I can’t really tell how long it’s been since you really trusted someone.  I know that you trust me to a certain extent.  Probably more than most people in your life.  But I want you to know one thing: there’s not a damn thing about your past that’d scare me away.  There’s not one single thing you could tell me that would make me care about you any less.

I've always defended you.  To anyone and everyone.  I'm not telling you that to make you feel bad.  I'm not telling you that for kicks.  There's no ulterior motive.  I don't mind taking the risk for you.  I don't have a problem throwing myself into the fray.  Because I believe--underneath everything, past that water under the bridge--you're worth it.

Now, the rest--where this goes--that's entirely up to you.

Poor little princess,

with your fable-bent eyes,

your wounded fairytale smile,

and your broken Happily Ever After.

Nobody told you

that sometimes

your frog-in-disguise

is really a villain—

and whoops!  You’ve sealed the deal

with much more than just a kiss.

But, Cinderella, you don’t want to hear

that forever might be a mistake; you’re still clutching

that broken slipper, bleeding

for a promise punctuated by betrayal.

Snow White,

you don’t want to think about,

dreaming your days away, half asleep

and defeated, kept under glass,

a prisoner in her own little world. 

And Rapunzel, darling,

did it never cross your mind

to cut your losses and run, never mind

your hair—that’s just for show, anyway.

That tower’s only as tall

as you make it out to be.

No, Prince Charming

isn’t coming to rescue you.  Suppress you

and repress you, maybe—

but he sure can dance,

and my dear, you are wearing

a pair of unfortunate red shoes.

There’s no White Knight,

no perfect kiss, or fairy godmother.

Sometimes, the dragon you face

is one that you have created, and that poison apple

is something that you picked yourself—

but no one tells you that, do they?

Not when you’re just about to prick your finger

on that golden spindle,

becoming someone else’s burden.

And let’s be honest:

even if the truth had, somehow, slipped in—

you would insist those rags were riches,

otherwise you’d have to live

beyond the realm of this

twisted little fairytale.

For whatever it’s worth,

you have my sympathies, child.

But until you pick yourself up,

strip away all those lies,

all those Hollywood imagined moments—

you’re caught within the pages

of a legend

that even the Brothers Grimm

would dismiss.

Who was I then, back when we first met?  I hardly remember.  I can picture certain memories, as if they are freshly pulled into existence.  I can conjure those first bits of attraction, the questioning desire that truly had no answer.  I can recall every awkward glance.  Soon, they transformed into stolen ones, eyes stuck fast toward temptation.  There really was no cure for it, was there?

As if by magic, I found myself in love.  Deeply, deftly, desperately—and yet, I could not say a word.  I did not yet know how.  I couldn’t form the words for you, but they echoed in each step I took.  They leapt and sang, recklessly, in my eyes.  There were times that I wondered if you saw it—and saw me.  If you did, you never let on.  You never said a word.  And that was how things were between us, then: a universe of things left unspoken.  A constellation of things left unnamed.  Naming is not what makes something beautiful.

It was the emotion that mattered, the connection, the trust, and the truth.  You made me believe in myself in a way I never quite understood.  A single, sly-eyed glance, or crooked grin, and I could sing a song in Latin—backwards.  I could catch a wild dervish in my teeth.  I could resurrect hope, throw all caution to wind, and accomplish whatever anyone else might consider ‘impossible.’  That was the gift you gave me.  Perhaps you did not know it, but there it is.  Written carefully, so that it cannot be erased, or undone. 

You saw me in a way I could not see myself.  You helped me to grow.  You taught me to challenge things.  But most importantly—you showed me that I was worth listening to.  Every time I spoke, whatever boring thing I might’ve been talking about, you listened.  You listened with your whole body, as if I were endlessly fascinating.  You, with that depth few people see, took me in.  And the more you listened, the more I wanted to reveal.  I would’ve told you anything.  Me.  The famed secret-keeper, the gypsy who never lights the same fire twice.  Me.  Who everyone knows, but few rarely understand.  You knew, and you understood.  It was a miracle to me.  A darkling of a treasure.

I am much the same as I was back then.  I’ve changed, yes, as we all do.  Improved.  In some ways, I am wilder than I was.  In others, I've become a bit tame.  You've yet to really see the difference, but it's there, underneath the effort it takes me to hold back.

I am still that bottomless mystery, that all-consuming what-if.  I always knew what I wanted.  It was always you.  I don’t know if that scared you, or if it scares you now.  I don’t even know what that means, or what possible form that might take.  For the first time in a long time, I am okay with answerless questions.  Perhaps you know.  Or maybe you don’t.  Maybe we just need to be.

This is a risk.  A foolish one, perhaps.  But an honest one.  An earnest one.  I don’t know how to be anything less than absolutely vulnerable.  Not with everyone.  But yes, with you.  And so, I’m going to make you a promise, one entirely devoid of expectations.  It’s simple, but profound.  At least, I hope it is.

Whatever you’re willing to risk, I’ll match it.  The control is yours.  You choose.  Because, you see, if isn’t painfully obvious already—I’ve chosen.  I’ve chosen in a way that I couldn’t, before.  Back when I was too silly and too awkward.  Back when I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted, or even that I could ask.  Who was I then?  I was untraveled.  I was unknown.  I was unsure of so much.

I’m unsure of nothing, now. 

Bare your smile; I can take it.  Bare your heart; I’ll carry it.  Bare your soul; I’ll watch over it.  Bare your body; I’ll worship it. 

At the end of the day, at the end of this, we both need to learn how to follow, how to shed the things that hold us back and keep us in. I’m willing to try, if you are.

4 tablespoons margarine

1 cup chopped onion

2 cloves garlic, sliced

3 lbs sweet potatoes (about five cups), cubed

6 cups chicken broth

3 cups half and half (I use 1% milk, instead)

4 tablespoons maple syrup

¾ tablespoon nutmeg

Cornstarch (I use at least 2 cups; it depends on how thick you want the soup)

Melt butter in a large pot, over medium-high heat

Add onion.  Sautee for 5 minutes

Add garlic.  Sautee for 2 minutes

Add cubed sweet potatoes, chicken broth, and nutmeg.

Boil.  Reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender.

Remove pot from stove.  Have a container standing by to put blended soup in.  If you have a second large pot, that will work fine.  I usually keep old margarine containers around and use them to store stuff in.  They can’t go in the microwave, though.  Blend the potato/chicken broth mixture.  Be careful to only fill the blender halfway full each time.  Otherwise, the heat will cause the blender’s lid to pop off.  I learned that the hard way. 

Once everything is blended, return the pot to the stove on medium heat.  In the blender, blend the cornstarch and milk.  Add the mixture to the soup, stirring thoroughly.  Add maple syrup, as well.  Stir the soup, constantly, until it boils.  It’s okay to kick it up to high, instead of medium.  If the soup thickens, but you’d like it thicker, blend a bit more milk and cornstarch and add it to the soup.  If it becomes too thick, add a little plain milk.

Note: I usually double this recipe, if cooking for 5 people, or if I want leftovers for a few days.

Love isn’t a Hallmark card.  It won’t rescue a kitten from a tree, and it won’t make the world a perfect place.  Gumdrops will not rain from the sky when you’re in love.  Unless, of course, you are on drugs.  (Try to avoid that, okay?)

Love is a complication amid chaos.  It’s a series of questions that no one can really answer.  Oh, we try to—the everyday people, the geniuses, the socially inept, the wild ones, and the good-hearted folk.  Worse, though, are the poets.  We’ll violate all good sense for a few lines, a couple of searing kisses, and the promise of inspiration.

Every heartbreak is a muse, earned.  Every dramatic fight, every wayward glance, every untoward temptation—a moment, a memory.  Something we’re either desperate to capture or purge.  A blessing dancing with a curse.  A language no one can read, but is easily understood.  Yes, love is more than just a crazy thing.  It’s more than just a habit, or a promise.  It follows you home, and you’re never the same.  It reacts, and you hang on for the ride.

Love pushes you out into the spotlight.  Every sin-soaked moment, hitched somewhere between lust and reason, carves out a bit of truth.  Something previously unknown, a newborn thought.  It is every broken trust screaming at you to run—but miraculously, you don’t.  You can’t.  It’s never really an option, no matter how many land mines you might fall over.  Wait for the aftermath: it either gets better or it gets worse.  There’s no in between, no concession, no warning, and no wisdom for it.

At the end of the day, whenever sleep is carelessly evasive, that’s when reality strikes.  The perfect phrasing, the gut-wrenching need, and the absolutely imperative desire to conquer what you’re feeling.  So, you write it down.  You throw blood on paper; it looks a lot like ink.  You coax your heart out of hiding, and listen to each whisper.  Whatever throe you find yourself gripped by, you do what you can to live it.  And live through it.  It always makes you stronger, even if you don’t realize it.

So, love.  It’s not all perfection and confetti.  It’s not easy conversations.  It’s not saying what someone wants to hear.  It’s saying what needs to be said.  It’s in hospital rooms at three in the morning.  It’s on the porch drinking coffee.  It’s not every dead end you know.  And it’s not a heap of everything you once thought you wanted.

It’s raw.  And it’s gentle.  It’s not what you expected.  And, sometimes, from the outside it looks like crazy.  But when everything is dark, when the evening’s slow and still, when the only other sound is strange hypnotic lull of tree frogs—it’s what reaches out of the shadows.  It’s what keeps you awake, or enables you to sleep.

Love might bring you pain, or it might bring you solace.  But how to do handle it?  How do you see it, or greet it?  But more importantly: what kind of love do you believe in?