Love is a body. A figure. A gray face and a brown suit. Love wears supportive, yet fashionable classically structured shoes. No man-made leather in sight. Love doesn’t color coordinate very well, but the cut of the suit is flattering and shows off its angular shoulders and long legs. Its wrists and fingers hang free from the cuffs of the suit jacket, unadorned and light in their touch.
I want to write you a love letter, Love, but that would mean two things. One, acknowledging your influence on my daily existence, on my thoughts and my actions. Two, naming the beast, acknowledging the cauldron of feelings bubbling around which some may identify as love. Hypothetically, it’s something most of us strive for, in some form. I don’t know if I’m striving for it. I only know that sometimes I look up and see Love there across the room, idle, leaning against the wall in a self-composed way that makes me want to stand up next to that body and slouch my shoulders and stare off as if I too am oblivious, but actually taking in everything. Content. I wake up sometimes and sense Love’s presence on the pillow beside me. I cook dinner and smell it in the seasoning wafting from the stove.
I am mostly reluctant to acknowledge you Love…to give you any kind of solid form because you’re such an internal experience. You’re a shape shifter. The constant metamorphosis leaves me feeling distracted, unsure. I’m tempted to pop the bubble. To settle the constant shifts and flows. You’re fickle and hard to catch. Any description will fall short because it won’t capture the breadth and it will do disservice to the specifics. How can I make a note of something whose existence I doubt, whose shadow I merely glimpse. I’m unable to get it in full view with both eyes. It’s frustrating to me. Love eludes me. Master Evader.