“I love you” used to be a compliment, now it’s more of a curse.
See it in the way we settle for the mechanics. How we take juiceless walks through songs we should slow dance to. Why we tap a thirst trap and still stay thirsty.
Our shields are raised. Our arms are wounded and bleeding. But love’s algorithm has dropped us in the ocean; the steel will drown us if the sharks don’t get us first.
Drop your weapon and lean back. Do a gentle backstroke to the land — careful not to churn the waters too much on your way. Walk with me to the high ground where the hills are covered in moss and you can let your feet go bare. This is our foxhole, our den. The place where I’ll hold your hand until we figure out what to do next.
I’ll remember to remind you (if you remember to remind me) that it’s not the love bombs we need to worry about, but the grenades that fall hissing into our darkest places, but never explode.
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Make love make sense again. My new book, Letters to My Lovers, is now available. (A full list of store links is on my homepage.)
