I'm not in love now, and I struggle to remember and feel it enough to describe what love means to me, I know I am avoiding the wash of rekindled expectations and misery. Apparently, you forget the pain of childbirth in the wonder of motherhood; perhaps I forget the feeling of love in the desert of loneliness that comes after.
The times I have had (count them on, OK, maybe two hands) where I have been with one who makes me smile and reckless and funny and sexy and oh, being with him bringing out the person I like to be; the times where I was simply happy to be are coloured in retrospect with the first shading of the leaching out of interest, giving way to the pain of betrayed presumptions. I treasure the flotsam, the mementos and memories of shared time together even as the wave of intimacy retreats; a cigarette lighter takes me back to that restaurant with this man; the letters the other one sent me; the feel of the sofa on my bare skin even knowing it was the last time.
Does love come when the happiness leaves? Drying salt, crusted memories, if love exists it has washed me up.
Unsuccessful submission to 6S, to use a work acronym I guess I'm really not an SME (Subject Matter Expert) on love...
