rough hands tipped then lowered the soaking chair to the hard wood and moved with a decisiveness not recognized. ringlets of moisture seeped memories from my skull, newness forming in the co-valence of two magnetic strangers.
i think this moment is when i knew, subconsciously accepted rather, that love is not a commodity traded for comfort. it took me a long time to work out how to apply this ideal in reality and i’m sure i broke and burned some arterial bridges along the way.
without spontaneity and singularity we are not whole.
if you want something, why would real love keep you from it?