Have you ever thought about how spectacularly misconceived it is that another can love you? How humorlessly funny it is that it is possible at all? Here I am being perfectly boring, existing quite unremarkably. In the shirt I woke up in, that ill-mannered slurp of my coffee, yellow-hued coming off day six of a bad cold. And you make love to me in the shower. Every millisecond of the day when my monotony can jolt you to a dead stop and awaken you from the lulling stupor that expensive second hand clothes, “natural” makeup, and the thrill of a person you still don’t know brings on. Every second of the day when I am little more than synapses firing in a bag of water, you love me. You want to be around me. You’re not yet tired of me. And my exhausted, wracking form struggles to fill the nooks and crannies of that idea with logic. Dye inserted into the vein of this thing so I can see exactly where the problem lies. It’s this ungraspable truth, this question that isn’t worth answering. This wildly confounding curiosity; that people love us, in all our garden-variety, pedestrian, unexceptional moments. I don’t know how to make an acquaintance of the idea that perhaps I am worth loving, all together independently, of what I have to offer. In these stationary moments, I do admit I find myself worrying that you’ll grow bored in the wake of more looming evenings. Tall shadows cast upon warmly lit walls. Too hard are they to measure up to. And here you are. Here you’ve stayed. The grand, mercurial little enigma; maybe we’re fated to always be more loved than we know.