A girl in my art class snapped this picture of me and my friends at lunch today.
They knew I was struggling, and brought a blanket and real food for me to eat. We had a picnic.
<3
How does she know that you love her?
How do you show her you love her?
How does she know that you really, really, truly, love her?
It’s not enough to take the one you love for granted
You must remind her or she’ll be inclined to say
How do I know, he loves me?
How do I know, he’s mine?
Does he leave a little note to tell you, you are on his mind?
Send you yellow flowers when the sky is gray?
He’ll find a new way to show you, a little bit everyday.
That’s how you know, that’s how you know, he’s your love.
Everybody wants to live happily ever after
Everybody wants to know true love is true
How do you know, he loves you?
How do you know, he’s yours?
Does he take you out dancing just so he can hold you close?
Dedicate a song with words meant just for you?
He’ll find his own way to tell you, with the little things he’ll do
That’s how you know, that’s how you know, he’s your love.
He’s your love
How do you know?
How do you know?
How does she know you that love her?
How do you show her you love her?
How does she know that you really, really, truly, love her?
That’s how you know he’s true
Because he’ll wear your favorite color just so he can match your eyes.
Rent a private picnic by the fire glow, oh.
His heart will be yours forever, something everyday will show
That’s how you know, that’s how you know
That’s how you know, that’s how you know, he’s your love
“Why does each man kill the thing he loves?” she’d asked him that day at Dante’s View. Hot and smoggy, the sunset coming a little earlier each day, heady with the scent of laurel sumac, the bright pungent green that was the smell of California, merging with the smell of water in the little oasis. They lay on their picnic tables, shaded with eucalyptuses, guarded by giant agaves twelve feet across, fleshy and blue-gray and edged with thorns. Prehistoric. Her soft dress floating around her thighs as he drew her. Reading The Ballad of Reading Gaol, a small book, an owl embossed on its cover, the pages thin as onion skins. It was about a man on his way to be executed. That line kept coming up. “I don’t get it. Why would you kill the thing you loved?” The softness of his voice, even now, under the deodars in the Court of Freedom, her feet in the grass over his silent body, she could hear his voice, clear but soft, you had to stop whatever you were doing, and lean close to hear it. And he had replied so quietly it took a few seconds for it to register. “You kill it before it kills you.”
