I just wanted to declare to our entire readership (does anyone else read this, really?) my feelings and my love for my perfect wife, Amber.
Don’t be fooled by this innocent and adorable Valentine’s Day illustration (despite its obvious sexual inuendos). My relationship with my wife is not full of the fluff and fleeting feelings that all too often get forgotten in a Lover’s Park somewhere, sometime.
My love for my wife is dark, rich and substantial. It’s heavy and monopolizing. All initial attempts to domesticate and wrangle that love failed miserably – my efforts to consume my love backfired and it consumed me.
Every creaky step I take on the old wooden floors of our house reminds me how much I love Amber. When the house is absolutely quiet you can hear the house moving and the furnace clicking and I always wonder if it’s waking up my sleeping wife. I can’t even walk by her without my hand brushing the small of her back or speak a word to hear with out claiming her as my sweatheart, my baby, my lover.
I love you, Amber, and when it seems like our love isn’t sending me into fits of excited giggling or zealous proclamations of that love, it’s not because I’m not moved by you. It’s because I’m so thoroughly content to have surrendered to you that to shriek from the joy I feel would require constant shrieking, and to speak of my consuming passion would demand your constant ear. So instead, every step and breath, every dish washed, lawn mowed and load of laundry done, is my continual release of the love that consumes me, it’s a constant offering to your alter where at I worship, it’s my neverending attempt to surface from my thoughts of eternity to show you I love you.