Love

Don’t tell me “I love you”

until you can answer, “How much?”

and please for the love of God do not say

“I love you to the moon and back” or “from the bottom of my heart”

or “this much, because a circle never ends”.

I don’t want to be loved metaphorically.

Because when you say “I love you to the moon and back”

you’re really saying your love stretches 477,000 miles,

which is a long-ass drive

and I gave up on being an astronaut in third grade.

The average human heart is only five inches long

so getting to the bottom of it isn’t very impressive.

And I’ve always thought that circles do end, because after all

they have to start somewhere, and I demand more love than can fit within

the circumference of your fingers.

I need to know if you’ll still love me

after you’ve picked my cruel words like gravel

out of your skin.  When my anger has left your cheeks red and smarting

will you draw me back to you after they’ve cooled.

Will you stay with me through the hours that panic has frozen my tongue.

When I have curled so far into myself

that I’m not sure I’ll ever find the way out,

will you reach out your hand

and pull me toward the light.

But most of all, I need to know

if you love me enough to let me go.

Will you stay, will you lie next to me

as the world fades to darkness?

Will you hold me in your arms as I bleed out;

rock me to sleep?
Will you?
Do you love me enough?

You told me once that, as a pastor, you believe there are good deaths and bad deaths;

that hopping a train and dying in a hobo camp wasn’t a good death.

You said I should do it locally, and with an audience.  Knowing I would never.

Or maybe wondering if I might.

You said that a quiet hospital bed, surrounded by family and friends –

that was a good death, not alone with strangers.

So now I ask you.

If my death does not come naturally,

will you still hold my hand?

Just because I was not meant for this world

why should I have to die alone?

Instead of wrenching it from my fingers, help me tie the rope.

Count the pills for me when I get too dizzy.

Give me one last hug; send me over the ledge

with a benediction and a blessing.

I accept my death sentence.  All I ask is that you be next to me;

even Henry VIII was kind enough to call for Anne Boleyn

her preferred executioner.

And then, at my funeral, maybe you could tell them

that I was right after all.  Tell them

I made the right choice; tell them I was at peace, tell them

in that last moment, you saw Heaven in my eyes.

Tell them whatever it takes.

I just want them to be happy for me.

I want them to squeeze each other’s hands and say

“She’s in a better place.  She’s not in pain anymore.”

If your God gave me this illness, tell them that in Him

I am free.  They never believed me, but they’ll believe

you.

So I’ll ask you one more time.

Do you love me?

Do you love me?
How much?