Oh, the many reasons
I refuse to love you like a love song.
Here is but one.

If I love you like a love song,
do I not make you finite?
Do I not make you fully knowable?
Do I not diminish you into a defined entity
utterly bereft of mystery?
You clock in at 4:25 – no more, no less.
You’re lyrics are set in stone –
even more unchanging, as stones can crumble.
You have a predictable structure, perhaps
verse / verse / chorus / verse / chorus / bridge / verse / chorus / chorus
You have a four-on-the-floor beat
that sadly will never be a waltz or
use odd time signatures prevalent
in 90′s math rock.

Yes, there is the possibility
that there could be a remix,
multiple remixes, actually,
but then you’re not the original
love song. Even if you are
generally the same love song,
but your record company has this
idea of doing a remix with a guest vocalist –
perhaps Tony Bennet or Harry Conick, Jr. –
you’d be a different love song and
if I were to love you like that love song
you’d be totally within your rights
to question whether I ever loved you
for in a way it would be like me
throwing you over for your younger,
hotter sister who went to Smith
or maybe your cougarish aunt
who was only 2.35 seconds away
from making the 1990 U.S. Ski Team
in the giant slalom – both of who
bear striking resemblance to you.
If I love you like a love song, am I
not all but telling you that I have my eyes
on the calendar, counting down the days
until we take the annual family Christmas trip
to Vail where both your sister and aunt will
not only be present, but drinking heavily?
Could I be any more blatant in my true intent?

If I were to truly love you like a love song,
I would be guilty of destroying the most
important aspect of love which is
the potentiality of the person being loved
as seen in the eyes of the lover.

Do I not love you for not only what you are now,
but what you may become?

Perhaps, you will take up painting.
Perhaps, you will become a sculptress,
Perhaps you will become a veterinarian,
and join the space program,
and make a sculpture of a dog
with a broken leg in a small cast
that you set yourself in your veterinary clinic
in rural Maine while training for the space program
and leave it on the moon while the whole world watches
and the announcer will say
“she is placing…now…on the moon’s surface…
a sculpture…she made herself…
it is of a Frug…named Lola…
whom she treated in her veterinary clinic…
and for those you who don’t know…
a Frug…I’m told…is half Pug…and half..
French Bulldog…”

If I love you like a love song
there is no room for this potentiality
for a love song can never leave a sculpture
it has made of a Frug on the moon.

And that’s what love’s about
the what if? Isn’t it?
The what if I pressed play
and every time was not only different,
but better – even though I’d prefer it
if we stayed in the city and sort of
have mixed feelings about having to
frequently use the term
“my wife the astronaut.”