If I asked you about art you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written.
Michelangelo? You know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientation... the whole works, right?
But I’ll bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel.
You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling.
Seen that.
If I asked you about women you’d probably give me a syllabus of your personal favourites. You may have even been laid a few times.
But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy.
You’re a tough kid. I ask you about war, and you’d probably, uh, throw Shakespeare at me, right? “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”
But you’ve never been near one.
You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap and watched him gasp his last breath, looking to you for help.
And if I asked you about love you’d probably quote me a sonnet.
But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable.
Known someone who could level you with her eyes.
Feeling like God put an angel on Earth just for you; who could rescue you from the depths of hell.
And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her.
To be there forever. Through anything. Through cancer.
And you wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room,
for two months,
holding her hand,
because the doctors could see in your eyes that the terms ‘visiting hours’ don’t apply to you.
You don’t know about real loss ‘cause it only occurs when you’ve loved something more than you love yourself.
And
I doubt
you’ve ever
dared to love
anybody
that much.