Care, let’s not forget, is rhythmic.

Tell me that you care about me in a way that’s not in tune or in step somehow with (call it) the way of things, and it falls, oh does it fall, on deaf ears. I don’t quite believe cuz it doesn’t quite signify.

Whereas show me care so gracefully, all very kairotically and, oh, man, does it touch my heart down deep. Moved I am for sure!

You know what I mean, don’t you? Can’t you just feeeeel the difference?

If I miss telling you that I loved your last painting until you’re halfway through the next one, don’t I imply that I don’t really care, dear, after all? What does forgetting really imply, huh?

And if you read something I’ve written months after I cared at all about that old ratty thing, aren’t we woefully out of step with each other? Aren’t we missing more than just a beat?

Don’t get all frazzled and take me to be jazzy here since I’m talking plainly about care. Caring well, ya know, is where the rubber hits the road, and genuine care, almost a sleight of hand, is as graceful as the late Fred Astaire. Or, if not, you might as well pack it in: no need to scratch your head when it comes to why the other ain’t getting back to you.

Right here, let’s lay down the tracks. You’ve got to be thoughtful and perceptive and, on top of that, have really good timing if you want to get right into, or right with, the rhythm of caring. Capeesh me?

In case you’ve missed me, I’m getting at what’s at the doorstep of love.