to be specific in our affections

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about specificity. There’s this clause that’s attached itself my brain like a barnacle, and I notice it whenever I get into the elevator or the shower: 

to be specific in our affections

It’s been stuck there since a phone call I had in December. At some point in the call, I said something nice. My friend paused and said, “You are very good at giving compliments.” Now, there are two main categories of response to compliments: shiver it off or accept it. But when people compliment you on giving compliments, I think it’s a signal that I’ve noticed and appreciated something specific, maybe small or overlooked, that makes them feel seen and appreciated. I like hunting for those things. 

So maybe what I’ve been thinking about isn’t just specificity, but specificity in love. In friendships and in romance, I’ve learned I crave love that feels specific. Oftentimes I think it’s useful to remember that we design our affections for each other: I don’t want words that could be meant for anyone else; I don’t want to offer platitudes. I want a love that’s conscious of my quirks. And when you have a love that exists specifically between two individuals, this creole of affection starts to emerge. The love gets wonderfully weird, and then it becomes durable. It develops resilience. How can two people constantly designing their love to welcome the weirdness and specificity of the other do anything but last?

There's this poem I think about a lot but can never find, which I think I encountered in an anthology when I was in high school. The poet writes about his wife's elbows, and how we write about loving the neck and the lips and the eyes but what about the elbows? Are they not also deserving?

None of the stuff that comes to the surface when you look for this poem is worth reading. It's all too ambitious, and I liked that one poem because I think the poet decided his job was simply to make you notice the specificity of your love.