Simple Love

I don’t really know why
but I’ve become more proactive lately.

Even my neighbor says I’ve changed.
I just smile and shake my head.

The sky is clear today.
Your voice comes back to my mind.

If I could,
I would give you a love
that is simple.

We would ride bicycles together,
racing to see who’s faster.

When we get tired,
we sit by the river.
You lean on my shoulder
and drift into silence.

We eat Häagen-Dazs ice cream together,
unable to decide
how many scoops
or which flavors.

We explore bookstores,
arguing playfully
about books we’ve read
and books we haven’t.

Then we end up buying too many
and bring them home.

We sit down to write on Substack together,
but instead
we keep talking about our writing.

I like listening to you talk
until you suddenly say,

“Are you even listening to me?”

When you disagree with me,
you keep calling me a liar.

I can only laugh helplessly.

So nothing gets written that night.
But somehow

two bottles of wine
are empty.

I stay with you
from sunrise
to sunset.

The morning air is cold,
yet because of you

warmth
floats in the air.

Holding your hand,
there’s a feeling I can’t quite explain.

I just want to keep holding it
and never let go.

Can love be simple—
without hurting?

Can love stay pure—
without sorrow?