Dear Diary,

I don’t pretend to know what love is. 

A long, long time ago, I thought I knew, when I was half a lifetime younger and about a thousand times more ignorant. I thought I held it lightly in my hand, like a newly fallen fledgling, as if love were the the thing with feathers, while in the distance a hundred hot air balloons drifted into the sky like circus-colored clouds.

I don’t pretend to know what love is, any more. I don’t pretend to understand what life brings or how things will go or when or why they will end.

I do know this, that today is Valentine’s Day, that last night we joked about not celebrating, that we gave each other gifts anyway–on February 13, not 14, because we are supposedly refusing to submit to the mass madness of the world-wide holiday.

That yesterday morning sleep gradually faded into an awareness of his breath on my bare neck, his heavy arm draped over my waist as we spooned in his bed, my hands wandering until his cock was heavy and solid in my hand, until he lay on top of me whispering my name while moving slowly, so slowly, as I quivered and trembled and gasped, until at last he gushed inside me and we were a perfect fit.
And here we are again, in his bed. He is sleeping, sometimes snoring, and I am reading The Martian by Andy Weir. I’ve almost finished, just a few pages to go. I went to bed at nearly midnight but I know he stayed up long past that. I want to touch him, to wake him with caresses and kisses, to straddle him while he drifts between dreams and reality and ride him to another dazzling climax, and another after that.

But I am waiting, because I was taught that love is patient. And love is kind.

I don’t know if this is love, but I know that I can wait, patiently, until he has had some fill of sleep before I wake him. And afterwards we will shower and perhaps get coffee before kissing goodbye, for there are so many mundane things left to do before Monday.

Yes, I can wait, for a little while longer…

Happy Valentine’s Day.