It Must Be

Love.
I don’t understand how I got here,
in this boring department store
shopping for what? and lost in thoughts of tomorrow:
diapers, first steps, lips like butter…
instead of wicked guitar licks and driving drums.
I’ve outgrown the shell of being alone, I guess
I’m both broken and complete.
In a foreign world.
With foreign words.
Like anam cara…
…soul friend.
…mate.
I love knowing the face of the moon
from staying up all night,
parching my throat with stories and jokes.
I love to strum on my guitar ‘til my fingertips bleed
that passion.
And I love the sense of purpose,
the sense of existing for the first time.
I love the way I feel complete now
when I climb into bed.

I love being loved by someone I love.