My dad made me afraid to love.
I equated touch with pain and love was an unfamiliar word.
So, there I stood on the blacktop at Grove Park Elementary School.
Afraid of her, afraid to touch her. Afraid to tell her I loved her.

Just a little girl, but all the woman I thought I’d ever need.
She wanted me to touch her, to smile, to laugh, to tell her.
So, I touched someone else to get familiar.

I smiled in another direction, laughed and something was in-fact lost.
Thirty years later, I met you. And, you were unafraid,
You were unafraid to touch me, to smile, to laugh, to tell me
You love me. And, that love in my heart, loved lost so many years ago.
That love blossomed. And, I can live again.

I can love like that little boy should have been able to love,
I can laugh and smile and tell you I love you, without reservation.
Without touching someone else first or after.

Nothing to figure out. That’s the thing I never learned about love.
That’s the thing I know now. So happy it’s the thing I get to know with you.