I love you, but I don’t want to be your wife
Do you understand? I do. I love you and only you. I love you with all my body. I love you deeply. I love you desperately. Even if I wrote a million words, I could never explain it, because eloquently organised alphabetical symbols can’t translate what I feel. What I feel for you.
I love you. I want to walk by your side. I want to share smiles with you. And tears, both mine and yours. I want to be a part of you, and I want you to be a part of me too.
I love you. But I don’t want to be your wife.
I don’t want to be the one you come home to. I want to be your home. But your wife? No, I don’t want to be that.
I don’t want to write grocery lists. I want to write illogical, inconsequential love letters. I don’t want to set up schedules for picking up the kids in school. I want to forget about time when I’m lying in your arms. I don’t want to wash the dishes. I want to wash away in the shore after sailing the world and singing marine lullabies. I don’t want try to guess what you’d like to eat for dinner. I never remember anyway… was it chicken or fish? No, I want to try to guess what the next move of your body will be. I don’t want to walk down the aisle in white sparkly shoes. I want to run barefoot in the streets of Barcelona on a lively summer night. I don’t want to dance the wedding waltz in front of reliable witnesses of society. I want to dirty dance with my legs tangled in yours until we’re both out of breath.
My love for you is joy. My love for you is free. My love for you is sinful. My love for you is a Van Gogh stroke of paint on a blunt canvas. And I want our love to be this way.
So please, if you have to ask me just one question, don’t ask me to be your wife.
Ask me to taste life in all its flavor by your side. And then I will say yes.