Loving You Is Nothing Special

People come to me
In Private
Spilling their secrets,
Near breathless.
“Do you want to know who I could really love?”
“Want me to tell you who really turns me on?”
It is never a surprise when it is your name that passes through their lips.
It’s expected.
If there are ten people in a room at any given moment,
How many of those people would find you attractive?
It’s really a rhetorical question.

Your magnetism instills this “following”,
The desire for servitude even.
The Pied Piper, leading the masses to . . . where?
What does it all mean?
Is there some freaky genetic code that exists in some of us
Bringing us closer to being like that face of God?
Does your DNA inspire the halo, the aura, the glow?
Are you some sort of “other” creature?
Is it a trick?

And what of me?
What does it mean that I can sit back, an observer
Listening to your flute and admiring the sound
But not to blindly follow?
It’s even having taken me a while to notice –
Though I am not totally immune.
As the sweet scented breeze of your spirit
Is blowing past, I DO find myself inclined to turn
And search for notes of a complimentary melody.

You see, I’ve always possessed a flute of my own,
And it is most refreshing not to worry about
Having to play a tune for YOU to dance about to.

Do I love You?
How could I not?
Is my love any different, any better, any stronger than that of any other creature?
It’s nothing special.

Ah! But to be the possessor of a godly instrument!
To one day make a symphony
Strike a chord within the race of human kind
To lead to . . . somewhere or nowhere . . . on the path with you.
Loving You.
Emitting music that somehow shines forth to effect a change in the color of everything?!
Wildly joyful at the very idea of life and love and nothing else?
Doing . . . nothing special.