I Want To Take Care Of You

I want to take care of you, and it isn’t because I want to move away from Brooklyn to drop roots in suburbia and get a Cocker Spaniel and figure out what we’re going to eat for dinner that night by way of Epicurious on our shared iPad. I don’t want to change a single thing about you, or put a passcode lock on your life.

I want to take care of you, and it isn’t because I secretly want to sleep with you or any similar such ulterior motive. I find you adorable and endearing — just like this little mouse I saw in an abandoned Chinatown storefront window, skittering on top of DC comic book heaps before most of New York was awake on a sunkissed Sunday. Your smile results in a spontaneous combustion of serotonin that blows open the Berlin Walls of cloudiness and doubt in my brain. And when you giggle, everybody in the room puts on their shit-eating grin.

I want to take care of you, and it isn’t because I’m harboring any hidden amorous thought bubbles. But I do have boundless energy for you, as I do for all the close people in my life, and I want to see you peak. Our relationship is a seemingly perfect one devoid of conflict, and chock full of nothing but positivity and growth. It’s an infallible bond that feels either cosmic or genetic, depending on your belief alignment. But I promise: my motives are pure, and aren’t laddering up to anything else.

I want to take care of you because you give and you give and you give, even at times where it doesn’t look like there’s anything left of you to dispense. But you’re a coal miner of the heart, plundering previously unexplored emotional rifts and unapprehended chasms of love in order to make sure the people in your life are tended to.

I want to take care of you because it’s the seemingly insignificant actions that you’ve performed that make me smile and realize that people care about me. It’s the unprompted glasses of water given to me in my own home when I’m dehydrated and weak; it’s the arms around my shoulders serving as a mental placebo for when I’m teetering a bit off balance; it’s the platonic fingers through my scalp when you scratch me like a kitten that all lead to feelings of belonging and big discoveries. It’s the vocal reminders that I could serve to be a little less anxious. These are the odd memories that will forever dissipate throughout my subconscious, even when I’m 78 years old and yelling at kids from my front porch for blasting shitty music. Aside: can you think about what dubstep will sound like in the future? How awful will that be?

So, please know: if you’re ever sad, I’ll sit around and drink Modelo with you until you feel fixed. If you’re hungry, come over, and I’ll make you some chili. If you’re broke, ask me for $20, and I’ll gladly give it to you. If you’re sore, I will rub the small of your back. If you need a gut check, I will shower you with brutal honesty. Need to go on a walk? Want a hug? A place to sleep? There’s not much I wouldn’t do for you, so just ask, okay?

Because you’re the most unselfish person I know to the point where it inspires me to do more for the important people in my life, to be more attentive to those around me, to put the people I care about first more often. Being able to help you or make you smile is like a godless Mitzvah of sorts. So, put your weight on me, and I’ll do my best to take care of you.