Like A Maple Tree, But Pretty Sweet

You say that I started it with my secret pirate blog, but really, that’s not true. It’s not a secret blog—everyone knows about it, just no one reads it. And I didn’t start it expressly to write to you, you just happened to be right there when everything felt terrible, and you happened to be the one to pick me up and dust me off. You listened and advised and set me right. You were there. So you were wiggling your way into my little heart, and of course that’s what came out when my creative fingers started itching to move.

I’m not turning the blame over to you. That’s what irresponsible people do when they do something bad and don’t want to get in trouble for it. While I’m not claiming to be responsible, this isn’t bad and I’m not worried about getting in trouble. We both started it. I’m sure that even the people that complain about sappy morons on the Internet want to feel love and fire and magic, and even though they bitch, as much as they bitch, you won’t hear a word from them when they’re happy too.

In fact, sometimes I’m nearly convinced that we’re just putting up the fight because we’ve cultivated the attitude for so long that we expect ourselves to, because we need the world to know that we’re tough and we won’t let anyone in to break our hearts ever again and the only way to do that is to talk the talk to anyone that will listen. And we almost had ourselves convinced. Almost.

But I find myself doing, every day, exactly the things I swore I was swearing off. I get so full of inspiration sometimes, caught up in some moment or some song, in fact, that I’ll make a post on Facebook or Twitter, declaring to the world how I feel, only to think about it, and rethink it, and delete it a few moments later or act like it never happened. I worry what those people I’ve been crowing to will think. I worry what, after I’ve been telling myself all this time, I’ll think. And most of all, I worry about what you’ll think.

And that’s silly. You told me you don’t think I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I’ve been told so many times, I’m too much, I’m overbearing, and so I’ve always held back. And you know what, I’ve been told by those very same people that I never said what I was thinking or showed how I felt. I wish I could blame those boys for not knowing what they wanted, when in reality, I always should have just been myself and accepted the consequences. That’s hard to do. But that’s also what got me into this mess in the first place. So, because of that, I’m going to get it right this time, I’m going to be open and honest and myself, and if what comes out isn’t what you want, then I’ll know you and I just aren’t right. But if there’s an off chance that we are, at the risk of being crazy, I’m willing to find out.

I love you. You have my whole heart. I may not always say it because I like to think you have to know, when I just look at you, and I don't want to ruin the word by saying it too much, but I absolutely do. I want to be cultured and cook and ride around the county collecting antique cameras with you. I want to make you happy when you’re sad; I want to make you laugh when you’re happy. I promise not to talk about tomorrow, so long as we don’t speak in finite terms. I’m content to just ride along to the tune of indie mixtapes until we’re too old and tired to ride anymore. I’m content to make big plans to fly away with no certain dates until we fall asleep on the floor. And I’m content to do precisely nothing but giggle about the dirty word you just said until we start to wonder where those last nine hours went. And I don’t need fancy dinners and gifts. I just want to see you smile to yourself like you think no one’s looking. I just want you to catch yourself humming that song I gave you. I just want you to realize that somewhere along the line you’re happy. Because, my darling, you have done that for me.