Sometimes I’m afraid I love people in the sort of way that sucks all the air out of room. In the mornings I used to pretend to love you less. To wait for you to touch me because years in I still felt like I had to ask first.
Because I did.
I went through some thinking where it was best to mitigate your love, to stretch it thin and parcel it out like candy, to save it. You made me feel like I had to keep my hands on the table all the time, like it wasn’t normal to want to eat someone whole you loved them so much. I added it to my list of shortcomings. She loves too much. It’s a fever of the heart and therefore a fault.
I’m not interested in loving in a way that holds you underwater or asks that you barter for attention, to bite your lip, to look the other way. I now want to only love in the sort of way that swallows me whole with someone who thinks my capacity to do so is nothing short of extraordinary.
I spent a long time believing that wasn’t going to be possible because it seemed like certain pieces had been taken out and not put in, lined up on a work bench being oiled and cleaned, decommissioned. I was wrong about a lot of things in the life. But I am not wrong about my ability to love someone. In the face and the fear of all that I’ve been through, I’d rather throw myself back into love than spend a lifetime on the sidelines.