It Hurts...

I don’t want to write about love... 

 It hurts. 

I don’t want to tell you stories of when love existed in my life. Too many nights have passed and I’ve accustomed myself to sleeping in the middle. I don’t want to write about the beautiful beginnings. How nothing else seems to matter and how quickly passion can override sanity. How love can fill you with substance that was never imaginable.

No. I don’t. I don’t want to. 

Because love for me was once as beautiful as the ocean, sunsets and night skies. I loved with all of being. Not really sure what it was all about. All those words have already been said, been read. My absent thoughts on love won’t be missed or sought after. I don’t want to write about how love feels like the breeze, how it can burn like a flame and go out just as quickly as it started. I don’t want to think about how I long for a deeper connection. How I fear like if it happens, then I’ll just question if it’s real; and if it’s real…

How long will it last. 

It hurts. 

Forgive me if I’ve appeared as a martyr. That was not my intention. If I were to share the good parts of myself, it’s only right that I share the bad ones too.

So I don’t want to write about love… 

 I just want to feel it. I want to feel weightless in the arms of someone who understands. Someone who sees love like I do.

 Someone who doesn’t want to write about it either.