extravagance

it’s not a matter of things—jewelry in velvet boxes, exclusive seats at the theatre, plane tickets. anyone can offer up that which is bought and sold. yes, I enjoy the private cruises in the harbor, personal dinners served me from closed kitchens, profligate services rendered on my behalf. but in the end, I know these things spring from excess, not from want or need. you see, it’s what can’t be put on your american express black card. it is all that is so very much more.

what I want is the thought and effort you offer as an extravagance to me. all the things I can do for myself, but don’t have to. it is as little as the door you open for me, the streetsplash you shield me from, the dropped coin you pick up for me. the expenditure of your movement and attention, for the conservation of mine. and as challenging as combing your hair and dressing the way I like, always wearing a watch because you know I don’t, assuming a daily discomfort on my whim. these weights that are shouldered, with the constancy and devotion of perpetual reminder, unbroken. the wounds and scars you wear on your body and soul, for me. and the self-respect with which you carry and show them.

what you say to me, I tell you I’ve heard all the words spoken before. it’s not a matter of believing or not, but of knowing. if you feel it, show it to me. if you need it, go without it for me. if you want it, give it to me. I know it is much, impossible, but if it were simple I would not want it and if it were possible I would not want it from you.