Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.
Love. It shows up before I want it to. Before I’m ready for it.
And certainly before they are.
Love hangs there, heavy as a stone.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve realized, with the same frenzied shock I’d experience jumping into a cold lake, Damn it, I’m in love.
Inappropriately early. When no one in their right mind would even be feeling it. Certainly before the other person could possibly.
I’m hyperromantic. And love doesn’t always understand the customs of the places I travel. It can spark in the most inappropriate places. Over camaraderie by the copier. A glint in someone’s eyes as they help me resolve a paper jam.
Or the man who helped me dab up coffee with paper towels when everything exploded, my first time visiting the dungeon. “Let me help you,” he said. “You’re a guest of Rob and Michelle’s, aren’t you?”
And it was as quick as all that. Rescuing me from my embarrassment. An easy smile.
I still love Rook. I’m not sure he even knows. Perhaps it has slipped out when I’m drunk. Fearless. Exhausted.
A Hyperromantic Lament
I love a lot of folks. But it’s not something I always even tell them. It isn’t helpful. They nearly always take it the wrong way. Think I want to control them. Or that I have some grand expectation of them.
But it’s never really worked that way for me:
“I love you, so you must drop everything to be with me when I command it.” No.
“I love you, so I’m going to control every aspect of your life.” No.
“I love you, so you must love me back.” No.
It doesn’t mean any of that. It just means that I love you. And there are so many kinds of love, really.
But I can’t say it. So I hold it inside. And just hope it doesn’t burst out and ruin everything.
My book is out!