I’ve often pondered what love & romance really mean. The factory-produced stories don’t deliver the kind of intimacy I wanted. And relationships are judged by how you met, how long you stayed together, how many people liked you as a couple and million other quantifiables.
My stories never fit those. My intimacies bled me, they led me into art, insight & wisdom. They’ve left permanently tender spots within me that I revisit when I’m in the mood for inner monsoons.
It isn’t intimacy unless it feels a little tender, no matter how long ago it was. It’s not real unless it transforms you & continues to guide you, long after you’ve parted ways and lost sight of each other.
The most profound of intimacies are scripted in bicycle rides, in gardening without gloves, on post-it notes, on cheap bus rides, in the fishy smell on an island creek, over fresh razors & old toothbrushes and room temperatures you don’t agree on.
Love your loves, long after they’ve gone. They’re a part of you now.