I’ve been wondering lately why we love.
I’m reading all these poems and manifestos on the nature of love and beating broken bloodied hearts. This is of course, is to assume we have a choice. Can we choose whether or not to love? Can we choose who we love? or how we love?
Because sometimes you love me in bits and pieces and scenes and moments. You just hang on to the ones you like. And sometimes it feels like you love me in seasons, deciding to cast off at times. I’ve seen you love me briefly, for only afternoons at a time. Do you remember that one day on Los Angeles? When we said we wouldn’t love each other anymore? Sometimes I think you love me like a lifetime. Other days I wouldn’t be surprised if you traded it all in. I keep watching other people tread water in love, drown in love, dry up and lay on salty land in love. It’s like they can’t see themselves clearly, looking through fogged lenses, cracked down the center, smudged in ideology. I am no different. We are no different than them. So, I will ask you again, how do you love?