Prose: This Is My Love

I remember of course that love is equipped with all things, including imperfections. And so am I for that matter, perfectly imperfect, flawed and exceptional. I want to remember this before I move through the gateways of each and every day.

I want to remember so that I can remember me and keep myself centered and balanced in this unbalanced force we call our life. I want to remember this and the best of times. In fact, I want to remember all times because how else will I learn or know what to look for.

And you, me, the world on a string, the crazy little influences we have on each other; the way the sunset creates a special appeal in the summertime, and the sunrise with its equal share; I have to figure that none of this is an accident. The rise and fall of Mother Earth’s chest as she breathes, the bosom of her comfort and the gray beard of the Father, himself is comforting to me.

I say this is Earth. I say this is us. This is all of us, lost and found, searching and looking for the same thing, which in time, we learn we had all that we needed this entire time—we just simply failed to look within.

When I think of love, I think of expressive features. I think of the rain and a walk to nowhere, just because. I think about the quiet side streets of my hometown and Sunday mornings with the aroma of a freshly baked pie.
My love is like the springtime, which has sprung. I view my love the same way honeysuckles give depth to a memory of mine in early spring—immeasurable, immense, and immanently true.

I suppose there is no room for anything else now. There is no room for the lack of clarity. There is no room for the settled applications of life or the forced-versions of what happiness is supposed to be.
Above all, I know my love.
I know my love and the various curves. I understand that love has a shape and yet, love is totally shapeless, because love does not conform or adhere to the ideas that love is only one thing.

My love changes and yet, my love is the most constant thing I own. My love is everything, yet, my love is nothing unless I have learned to love myself.

There are moments in life which are equipped with total peace and personal fulfillment. There are times, such as the first time, and if we think about them; we close our eyes and hope to see a glimpse of something so perfect, so touching, and so heartfelt — and you think and you try and wish and you dream — you barter and you build and you hope for the replication of your deepest fantasy. 

There is no estimable version of love or love’s typical feature- especially when love is the most inestimable emotion. There is nothing typical.
Instead, love is more. And I say more to characterize the yearning we have to feel, to be, and have this thing called love.

Love is the most elusive of all and yet, love is the one thing that never escapes our grip. I have this. I have me, which means I have everything I need, which means I am equipped with all that I need to love successfully. 

The question at hand is fear. This is not the fear of love or my ability to love wholeheartedly. The fear of love is not the fear of love at all.
No, the fear is the fear for the absence of love. The fear is the fear for love which goes unreturned, or rejected and abandoned, as if there was something wrong or something impure. 

Real love is not about fear or about the return. No, exactly the opposite. Love is the ability to understand that misunderstandings are real and part of everything.

Love does not conquer all or fix the broken features of our life or someone else. Instead, love is the touch of a hand or the feel of comfort when we need this most. Love is boundless, yet, love has boundaries too.

My love is far from imperfect. My love is not something that can survive in a vacuum. I only say this because my love is living and breathing (the same as me) and without air to breathe, my love can become unnurtured, and thus becomes unloved. 

I am of the firm opinion that before anything and above all things, my love cannot and will not be defined by anyone else because this love is mine. This is me, which means I am the square root to all of my own equations, which means my life begins with me, and ultimately, my life ends with me as well.

There is no telling what my love will bring because my love does not come without pain or disappointment. My desire to live is the breath of my love; in fact, let me breathe deeply now because I don’t ever want to be short of air, which in turn would bring me short of life, or love, because both are the same thing

And what is love?
Love is a movie. Love is a meal. Love is a song by Chuck Mangione in a car with the windows rolled down and the wind sweeping through my hair. Love is a walk on the beach or a walk anyplace. Love is a trip to the hospital. Love is a waking moment when suddenly, everything makes sense because for the first time ever, nothing has to make sense at all because nothing else really matters.

At last, we have learned that we’ve placed importance on trivial things. We gave love away, which wasn’t love to begin with. And finally, we find ourselves at a moment of truth or a moment of clarity.

I remember the first poem someone ever told me about love. He was a kind man, much older, and a mentor to me at the time. He said the poem was not his but yet, he shared this with me. He told me once, and yet, I never forgot the poem.

A song is not sung, until you sing it
And a bell is not rung, until you ring it
And love in your heart was not put there to stay
For love is not love, until you give it away.

I remember me at the time. I was too afraid. I was too selfish. I was too deep in the ideas of love being given but never returned. I was never brave enough to love —least of all, to love selflessly. My first poem about love was this

If I listen, I can hear you in my thoughts.
And if I look, I can see you in my dreams
And on the movie screens behind the walls of my eyelids
But my only hope is that someday soon
I will hold you in my arms foreve

And thus, this is my love.
This is me. Faults and all

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