I’m not sure how to describe this, I’ve always expected love to be that rush of excitement. I expected intensity and jealousy and drama but it’s calm now, Everything is calm
It’s not even that it’s the calm romantic music I want to listen to, like the wedding playlists, book of love, I’m even tired of those now. I listen to the same songs I heard weeks ago when I first rediscovered you, the more ordinary songs, ones not particular to us I just listen to. I don’t feel particularly good or bad, just perfectly even almost. I feel like those tools you use to hang frames with the liquid inside with the air bubble and it tells you when you’ve found the centre-weight
I expected more love, but more love isn’t more
There’s no flirting or talking or negotiating
It just is. When I’m anxious or angry or looking at another face or going up the stairs or turning right, it is.
Simply, like this, as Neruda would say
I ask myself, when was this love ever not here?
I don’t know.
Last night I watched myself on screen and I talked to myself in a strange and quiet voice that was startling and pained and yet very much the real me. I touched my face and said thank you, thank you for bringing me here.
And like this, I thank you