When you
say you love me,
do you
mean it the way I do
when I say
that I love Taco Bell—
embarrassing
but true?
Or how I
love watching hockey?
The way I
pretend to know the players’ names
but really
I just want to see some action?
Perhaps our
love is a deeper, richer form of love.
Such as,
but not limited to
the way
you love your older brothers
whom you
speak with several times a year on the telephone.
Quite
honestly, I’d rather be on par with
your paper
on the step,
your
paintings in their frames,
or the hot
water in your faucet.
At least
they get to see you every day.
Not to be
a nuisance,
I just
want to know where we stand.
Because
when I say “I love you,”
I sort of
mean it
the way
Percy Sledge sang
“When a
Man Loves a Woman”
But
certainly not the
can’t eat, can’t sleep,
you complete me
type of
love.
Which, as
everyone knows,
isn’t love
at all.
Merely
infatuation.
Or in the
case of Taco Bell—
an appetite.
an appetite.
