I’ve come to the terms with the fact that I’ll never be into commitment. I’ll never be the girl who needs the level of comfort and intimacy that romantic relationships grant. I’ll never be the girl who is obsessively worried about you when we aren’t together. I won’t text you just because and I won’t call without purpose.
I’m the girl you can take home to your mother while simultaneously being the girl that your mother always warned you about. I walk the fine parallel lines of being a walking contradiction.
When we’re together, I’ll like you lightly, but never love you intensely. It involves more commitment that, at this point, I’m not sure I will ever be ready to make. I love the idea of tattoos but know I can’t handle having them on my body for the rest of my life. I love changing my hair color, but can never dye it because I don’t want something with even the semblance of being permanent-even for a few months. I’ll be the one who whispers in your ear, fingers running through your hair just because, in the moment, it feels like the right thing to do.
I’ll put you above myself, but only to a certain extent. I’ll love you, but only in a way that is my fingertips gently grazing the skin on the sides of your neck; in the way my hand gently bumps into yours; in the way my sheepish smile appears when you say something funny but I won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing that I found it endearing. I’ll give you all of me except my heart. My body, my mind, even my soul is for yours to explore because I’m not threatened by the uncharted exploration and discoveries you might make. However, my heart is mine and mine alone.
Making meaningful, romantic relationships mean nothing to me. I’ll forever be the girl that makes you happy, that loves making you happy, that loves being with you, that loves sharing ideas and battling between the sheets, but I can never be the girl that will love you heavily. I can never be the girl that can be committed to you-that cares to be committed to you.
I’ll enjoy the moments we spent together, but I can never be the girl to ask for more than the superficial. I can’t love you like my life depends on it, like you’re that air I need in my lungs, the face I need to see when I wake up, the guiding voice I need in my life.
I can’t love you with everything I have, give you everything I possess, and expect more from you than I would of myself. My love will not feel like cough syrup dripping down your throat-a taste you’ll always remember. It will be like water running through your hands-there one minute, gone the next. My love will not feel like lying in bed after a long week of work, it will be like falling face first into the feathery blankets and pillows in an expensive hotel room.
My love will be a shout into the void, the wispy wind of a spring day, translucent streams of sunlight that creeps through the window. It will be light. It will be present. It will be airy. But it will never be substantial. It will never be meaningful. It will never be heavy.