In response to the many who’ve asked in many ways, “But why do you have to call it marriage? Why call it love?”

I don’t have to
Let me
Explain—
When I say marriage,
The only meaning I mean to mean is this:
His goals, his happiness, pursuits—
For, toward, in, of, unto—
Are mine.

He is he. And he is his alone, not mine.
But what he wills be that he will be—
This is what is grafted onto me.
I’ve taken on a future name,
a claim pursuant to his dreams,
and bound myself to sow our seeds
Until his field, or mine, barren fades.
He is not mine.
But I am here, and will be there,
With him
For him.

But also for me.

I don’t have to
Let me
Explain—
When I say love,
My only definitive definition is this:
This work unto
His goals, his happiness, pursuits—
Are
My joy.
Not his, but mine.
For me, and not for him.

I am me. And I am mine alone, not his.
But I’ve found a spring that bubbles joy—
Outside myself, and flowing in and up and out:
A rose is just a rose unless, until,
His nose or eyes or fingers tip its crimson floral cup
And drinks
My gift—for me, not him—comes only then:
My joy, his joy.
My happy well, his smile
His giggle-jiggle-cackle-tears
Mine.

When I say I love him, I mean only this:
I am happy when he is happy.
I want to be—
Will work to be—
Happy.