“Love is awful. It’s awful. It’s painful. It’s frightening. It makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself, distance yourself from the other people in your life. It makes you selfish. It makes you creepy, makes you obsessed with your hair, makes you cruel, makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It’s all any of us want, and it’s hell when we get there. So no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own.
I was taught if we’re born with love then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot, feeling right, when it feels right it’s easy. But I’m not sure that’s true. It takes strength to know what’s right. And love isn’t something that weak people do.
Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.”
I want a lover with sleepy eyes, who never makes the bed. He wakes up before me and draws the blinds, he rubs the sleep out of my eyes, and holds my chin as he kisses me hello. His tongue is only as rough as dark chocolate squares, and his teeth only as sharp as the two fingers of dry gin I pour from time to time, late at night, when we cook eggs at the hours that could be either night or morning.
I can hear car horns and whistling in the street below, drifting in through the wide open window he is standing at, but as he draws closer I can hear oceans in the waves of his dark hair, I can smell the salt and the open air. I see waves in the movement of his dark eyes, stronger than any current.
He is always looking up from something, a thought, a reverie, and inner dialogue he shares only in bits and pieces, leaving me to assemble and construct the thread for myself but far from leaving me in the dust, he simply knows there is no need to slow down, we are on the same plane. I understand his spontaneous bursts of words that are halted and vary in tone and speed, I love hearing his thoughts, not in the words but the tone, the flow that is in no way predictable.
He gesticulates as he scribbles struck by sporadic moments of clarity inspired, by the Muses. Inspired, by me perhaps. I laugh as he holds his ink pen high, either hoping to attract a lighting bolt into the room, or brandishing it as you would a torch, to light the way through his tumultuous thoughts, his prolific mind.
Ideas are like stokes of color accros a canvas, splattering at random until that sudden jump back reveals a work of art that fits, everything fits, each stroke fits together and is melded into a single vision of beauty, the colors superimpose and an order arrises from the inspired chaos.
And we pick our conversations like books from a shelf, thick books with covers that often mislead us as to the content. We dive in and discover chapter after chapter, moving hand in hand, turning the pages faster, and faster, flipping through the final lines only to regret the end only because it arrived, so abruptly.