I feel heartbroken.
But don’t you need love first for a heart to break?
Is love some shellac that must be painted in thick strokes, hardened to a sheen, ripened to a patina to look like time and something shared? You need only as much as the back of a spoon, and a tiny tap at just the right spot to crack it wide open.
But what then if you have none of that? Not time. Nothing shared.
Just some tragedy of possibility. A lamentation for a love imagined, for someone real and raw, and who reminds me to see those things in myself too. Is that what I mourn? Is he some portal to seeing myself the way I want to be seen? Courage to let the ugly parts that hurt show?
But I’m up at night with some notion that we squandered truth.
How often do we find truth in human form? Truth is so big. Truth fills up the whole room. And it will stink before it’s sweet. But when it finally turns and turns again, you’ll understand why you can never palette anything else.
I chide myself that I even let it hurt. I only know the idea of him—but ideas—aren’t they everything? Aren’t they impressionism and quantum gravity? Stoicism and the zodiac? Isn’t love just another name we give that thing we all suspect, but no one can touch or measure?
That’s more than enough for me.
And love is more common than you think. Love is not Bigfoot—love is not mere lore that a meager few will swear by their ancestors they’ve encountered, maybe even corroborate in blurry creased photos procured from wallets as proof. Love is not so shy. Love is no beast.
Love has his arm draped around the flower vendor only just downstairs, and he’ll drape his arm around you too. You just have to notice him. And if you have to stop to ask yourself, “was that love?” the answer is, yes.