It is easier to look you in the eyes than to look inside myself, I’m trying to hear what you have to say, I’m trying to make sense of this idea that we have used words too often for them to mean anything anymore. Maybe love itself is worth less than the word in itself.
I come to you with words hickey-ed in places you have yet to discover. I come to you cold half-eaten already frozen and microwaved twice. I come to you with ideas of who you are. I come to you still raw from my last skinning. I come to you cured and fermented. I tell you we are too young to feel this old.
I come to you with overextended tendons from holding myself open for all this time. I come to you ready to practice again. Maybe love is like science; you keep thinking you know all you’ll ever need to know about it til the next year brings you closer to a truth that will be dismantled again the year after that. Maybe every moment that we have lived has been preparation for this, maybe this is preparation for something else.
Maybe we are canvasses stretched with sunlight as our painter. Maybe we are mere shadows of who we were. One thing is for certain: we will surprise ourselves with how little or how much we have to offer. Our arms are butterfly nets that fill the mason jars of our bodies with feelings we mistake for memories. Our arms are butterfly nets that confuse other butterfly nets for feelings. Our bodies are always trying to engulf one another.
Perhaps it is our imperfections that justify repeating the same words and the same actions. Maybe we are still trying to figure out how to fix what went wrong with our first heartbreak. Maybe loving someone else is the only way to prove to ourselves that we are not broken. Maybe love is more conquerable than we thought, as we always seem to outlive it. Maybe love is unconquerable because regardless of outcome it leaves us feeling defeated. Maybe the singularity of love is not meant for whores and musicians.