I could tell you about love until the soles of my feet bleed.  I love love.

I am also deeply reserved when it comes to “types” of love.  Love is scary. It feels quite squelched and dangerous to me at times.  Like the risk is almost too great for what it’s worth, yet when my heart splits and sun hits it dead center, even for a split second, that feeling travels and it doesn’t matter if that’s the only time I will ever feel that.  Love is love. It is only. It is easy. It is achy because it is real.

Like most things in this life, I’ve learned that anything that is real and good is achy.  It is attached to pieces of hearts that pull at other strings in bodies. It is rooted and connective, as humans are.  If life is experience than life is love. And if life is love then it is throbby. And so many miss and regret and draw inwards for fear of emotional connection.  Yet there is always a piece of humans that desire, that crave belonging, acceptance, love. Eyes become a magnifying glass that don’t allow the heart to show what it’s truly feeling until it’s screaming or entirely numbed through the fingers and toes.  A heart that is entirely empty with eyes that are entirely full. Eyes that have seen every naked body, every type of drug, every dirty toilet bowl, a mirror that will never suit the body they have. Eyes that see it all with a heart silenced and burnt.  Burnt toast of a heart.