Don’t ask me to love you quietly—
I never learned how.
I can only love you loudly:
In fireworks and ardent declarations,
In shouting “I adore you” in public places.
My love is not soft: not gently
Offering an embrace, making your coffee just so,
Or memorizing your favorite movies.
It’s the tight, slightly suffocating grip of protective arms,
Buying you extravagant meals I can’t afford,
And giving you my only glass of water
When I’m the one on fire.
So, forgive me if I overwhelm you—
If I drag you under the waves of my regard,
With a violent emptying of myself
Just so you might be one drop fuller.
I possess only an all-or-nothing love,
A heart given wholly or not at all.
I cannot love quietly.
I never learned how.