We fall in love everyday.
With moments and energy, seeing the things we want to see in the people we want to be.
We feed gratuitously on the love that we give, because we love the idea of unadulterated adoration.
And so we submit with every fragment of our unfiltered selves and then ask why we are so weak later.
It’s funny how we treat our bodies like sieves and then wonder why all that is liquid and bountiful goes down the drain.
And the hard stuff remains, engrained, in the structure of our bodies – ripe and bare, polygon and square with edges shaped sharp to the touch.
“Don’t touch me,” I swear.
Like I said, we fall in love everyday but sometimes the fall is one from grace and it displaces all in its wake.
It saturates every emotion and moment with obsessive devotion until we are keeling, kneeling, bleeding love.
Love has no bounds to its strength except when faced with death.
Because when the wretched body dies, soul bereft, the energy that was weft in the spirit of the deceased is released and the love finds conversion into other forms.
Mourning. Pain. Emptiness. Scorn.
New emotion is born from death and love becomes the victim of theft.