I have an arsenal at my disposal
hips made just for your hands
a mind meant to be wrapped
so bring it
studied her in all
her fiery determination
kissed her deeply
you had me at I
-Madhuri Pavamani, YOURS
I was asked to put down some thoughts on Valentine’s Day and even though I said, yeah, sure would love to — I’m a romance writer and a poet, for god’s sake, of course, I said yes — the most interesting aspect of this piece is the fact Valentine’s Day is the last topic about which I would ever consider writing.
Simply stated, I have no thoughts on Valentine’s Day.
For starters, it’s very pink and red. And although I love the color red — lips, panties, fingernails — couple it with any shade of pink, and you’ve lost me.
Then there’s the sense the holiday is specifically designed for the crowd that farts rainbows and unicorns. I’m a dark-hearted girl, I pour myself a lowball of whiskey and eat that crowd for a midnight snack.
Also my inner feminist, that lovable bitch who took her first steps holding onto her mommy’s sari, ran skipped jumped in the red clay of Georgia, stretched her arms along the halls of Barnard College and the streets of NYC, and came into her own in her forties, loud and proud and one hundred percent certain she cannot abide a holiday focused on making women feel lesser than should they find themselves alone come February 14th, yeah—this girl ain’t having it.
Don’t get me wrong — all of the preceding does not mean I don’t live breathe bleed love — I do. Just not on some day designated by a card company.
Instead, I crave weeks of tenderness, days of finding hidden love notes, random seconds filled with whispered you’re so beautiful, hours of skin pressed to skin. I want mornings of Neruda in bed, rainy afternoons filled with coffee and Coltrane, evenings of roaming the city hand-in-hand.
Love me long and hard and fierce.
Not just on Valentine’s Day.
So I guess I was wrong—I do have some thoughts on Valentine’s Day after all.