Don’t Ask Me If I Love You
Don’t ask me if I love you,
because I’ll tell you yes,
and if you have to ask, it doesn’t count.
And don’t ask me how much I love you,
because I’ll tell you:
—A lot, a whole damn lot,
from here to infinity and beyond.
Better to ask me why I love you,
and I’ll probably tell you what you want to hear, and it’ll feel good.
I LOVE YOU for the magic you project,
for how you captivate me—
not for what you might pretend to be,
because it’s logical that I’d like that version of you:
the pretty one,
the one with makeup,
well-dressed,
in high heels,
perfumed,
put-together and sharp,
with a bit of haughtiness just for the image—
because a little "touch-up" never hurts,
and a woman who looks beautiful is enchanting,
and beauty attracts,
it captivates more than one.
But I love that one—
the real one.
Because anyone could like the beautiful version,
but only I see your hidden monsters.
I love who you are in the mornings:
the disheveled one,
with bags under your eyes,
and even bad breath.
The one without a drop of makeup and messy hair,
who walks around in the morning in shitty sweatpants
and one of my t-shirts that hangs loose on you,
without a bra and with your breasts hanging,
with your nipples asleep and your desire turned off,
wearing ugly underwear,
mismatched socks, and sneakers.
That is the one I love,
that version of you,
who you really are,
YOU.
Because beauty is vain and sometimes it lies.
I also love your flaws,
your moles and scars,
your weaknesses and virtues,
your courage and the "balls" you show life to keep moving forward.
I love you and I don’t care about your bad temper;
yes, sometimes it pisses me off, but oh well—I have to carry that beast too,
it came standard with the model.
I love you because with you, I’m the king of the world,
and in you, I have a country of riches:
beautiful eyes,
sweet lips,
lovely legs,
splendid feet and toes,
soft hands,
a belly with "love handles" full of life,
the best ass and the best sex.
You make me happy,
and the most imperfect body in the universe—yours—makes me a man,
because imperfection also inspires love,
it also inspires.
🦋🎼
Love is often described in grand gestures and idealized images, but real love thrives in the everyday acceptance of imperfections and authenticity. Reading this poem reminded me how important it is to cherish your partner not just for their polished, outward appearance but for all those small, messy, and intimate details that make them uniquely themselves. From my own experience, the 'morning person' my partner becomes when they wake up—disheveled hair, sleepy eyes, and mismatched socks—is just as lovable as the person they are when dressed for the world. Those genuine moments reveal trust and comfort, essential ingredients that deepen the bond beyond physical attraction. Loving someone means embracing their 'hidden monsters'—their quirks, moods, and vulnerabilities—as parts of a whole story. Beauty might catch the eye, but it’s the acceptance of flaws and courage that captures the heart. This poem eloquently reminds us that love does not have to be flawless or perfect to be meaningful; it's in the vulnerability and realness where love truly persists. Moreover, it offers a fresh perspective about what attraction really entails, moving the focus from surface-level beauty to the richness of personality and shared experiences. It’s empowering to realize that being seen fully and loved unconditionally is a gift we can give and receive. For anyone navigating relationships or seeking to understand love on a deeper level, embracing imperfection and valuing the authentic self turns love from an idealized concept into a lived reality. This poem is a beautiful tribute to that philosophy, making it relatable and inspiring in its honesty and warmth.
WYS!