I used to love like it was leisure. Like it could come and go and give and take. it does all of the things. but on it’s own accord. not for me to come and go and give and take. or decide to withhold or draw it out like long sighs in the afternoon. a stretch. I can love in a variety of ways, and some I have learned are healthy but most are not, and others fall to the wayside after hours. I can love in bits and pieces, nuts and bolts, fragmented frigid winds and summer heat so hot it melts the paint from your thin and yellowing finger nails. I have learned I can love from far away just as well as I can love up close, sometimes better, depending on who you ask and when we were lovers. love is like an epidemic not a past time. it lets him lift up my layers and have opinions on who I have been. I don’t want opinions. should it be all sacrifice and new locations, bowed heads and bloody bending knees? because all I see is people beaten by it lately. beaten in some of the best ways possible. it should be full or hurt and cut throats and fallen bodies. is love supposed to be hard work or simple and organic like growing grass? growing grass is hard work. So is being a bird.
“suppose you’re in love and someone’s mistreating (mal aimé) you, you don’t say, “Hey, you can’t hurt me this way, I care!” you just let all the different bodies fall where they may, and they always do ‘flay after a few months. But that’s not why you fell in love in the first place, just to hang onto life, so you have to take your chances and try to avoid being logical. Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you.” – Frank O’Hara