You ask me why I write about love.
Why, in this time when we are watching the world spiral, I spend my words recounting the moments I have slid like honey into another’s chest.
And I tell you this: I dreamt I was teaching him how to build a fire to heat his cabin. When I woke, I saw it was his arms around me that were keeping me warm all night.
You brush my words off as foolishness. Girly stuff. The world is crumbling, you tell me. There’s no time for naiveté. We need action.
And I tell you this: I stood naked in the cold air. He gave me a sweater three sizes too big to wrap around my body. I stood before him in the morning light. Messy hair, unbrushed teeth, sleep creases lining my cheeks. I felt as beautiful as he said I looked.
You urge me to find more important issues for my silver tongue to press against. Surely I can dig deeper, you insist. Do better. Go harder.
And I tell you this: We sat on his sofa with hands wrapped around warm mugs in the soft glow of Sunday. He made me eggs. The hens outside clucked to us. A promise of more to come.
You beg me words that will fuel a revolution.
And I tell you this: You can hurl weapons at those who are also bent on destruction, or you can search for the taste of God in another’s mouth.
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