Love Ya

What do you say to someone who you feel comfortable around,
but not so comfortable that:

You know you the echoing sound of their footsteps
coming up the stairs to your front door?

Love Ya.

Or can trust them with every secret
like the time you farted in Hallmark
and had to hide in the candle isle letting the aromas of Pine Fresh and Strawberries ‘N Cream
cover up the smell while your laughter masks your embarrassment
and any sound that may or may not escape?

Love Ya.

Or can cry on the phone to them when
Sam, Harry, Billy-Bob, Clark, Mark, Al, Tracy
broke your heart?

Love Ya.

Or tells you they are on their way to come pick you up
and drive you away to somewhere,
probably nowhere,
but you say yes because you know
wherever you go it will be fun?

Love Ya.

Don’t confuse Love Ya with Love You.
They are not equal.
Saying they mean the same is like saying
Pizza by Angelo and Angelo’s Pizza taste the same.
If you don’t get that reference,
when I hang up the phone after talking to you for
46 minutes and 54 seconds,
the last words that come out of that cell phone speaker
and glide into your ear are:

Love Ya.