Forgetful

Sometimes I forget my name. I don't know why. When I write it on paper, it looks unfamiliar and strange to me. It's a stranger's name. It's not a common name, so you'd think I'd remember. Sometimes I can tell other people forget my name. Seriously, why? Is it so hard to put a name to a face? A sticker to a bumper? A wiper to a windshield? A girl to a guy? A hum to a song? Well, if I forget my name, I guess it's ok if everyone else does too.

I had someone write to me today. I will cherish the words for the rest of my life. I don't need an imitation something to make me feel ok. I need those words. Written loud and clear for all to hear. I just hope that I never forget them. I love them. I love the pen that wrote them. I love the hand that wrote them.

Love always seems a little fake to me. How many people can you actually trust to love you? I know I will only ever say it if I mean it. And if I'm inclined to say it, then I will. Except once, but that's a strange circumstance. But the people that go around saying how much love they have for everyone else, that's the fake love. The person that openly compliments themselves on saying, "I love you," to reassure themself that they are a good person.
But they are not. They may love most of those people. Heck, they may actually love all those people. But once I see some trust and a base to the bridge, I'm not buying it. If I am, then you will know, because I'm bringing the love right on back in a cycle, because love should never stop.

If I've proclaimed my love to you, know that it's real because it came out from between my two lips, not two fake ones, but mine.