eithe, ei gar (yap)

I wish I wasn't afraid to tell people how much I love them.

I guess I just expect people to know. And when they say something funny I'll say "I love you" but that really only means "you just made me laugh." It's an outlet, though. It's like poking a hole in the wall around my heart, letting some of the water out but not letting all of it flow. But the little Holland boy comes running.

Sometimes I see you leave the table and I want to run over and hug you, but I don't because you'll get annoyed and won't hug me back.

Sometimes you ask why I want to walk with you and I want to say because I love you and I want to spend time with you, but I don't because you will run away.

Sometimes I ask "how are you?" and all you say is "fine" because you have no idea how badly I want to know.

Sometimes we're leaving and I hug you but not as close as I want to. And I don't know why. I'm afraid.

I don't love you for what you do. I don't love you because you listen to me or make hats for me or throw me to the ground or believe in God or enjoy Latin or make jokes or help me with chemistry. I love you because you are made in the image and likeness of God, because you are good and nothing can change that.

But I'm afraid to tell you. All of you.

I'm afraid because somewhere inside me I know that I love some people more than others and I know I ought to love everyone equally. And if I tell you how much I love you, you'll know the extent of my love. And it's nowhere near where it should be.

I'm afraid because my actions won't follow through. I can, for the most part, make my actions follow through with how much I say I love you. But I'm not strong enough to love consistently. If I say I love you twice as much, my actions ought to reflect that, but I know they won't.

I LOVE YOU.