I wonder about that thing J[eanette] Winterson writes: about contentment being a lot like resignation. The positive side of resignation, she calls it. And why shouldn’t I have been content for awhile? Why shouldn’t I have been resigned.

There’s the kind of love that quiets. That holds you softly, calming you to sleep; that wipes away your tears, walks with you, makes you believe there is such a thing as understanding without words. Maybe for some people there is. I find what I can in what I am given, and then I rebel. and then I explode. and then I cry. I am not made for contentment.

There is the kind of love you feel in your body, that makes your heart clench and makes you run, towards it or away.

There is love that is full of words, full of a commitment to struggle with the language and thought and emotions and the vulnerability and misunderstandings, and sticking with it and continuing deeper into the secret parts that we keep hidden.

There is love that makes secrets seem unnecessary anymore. There is love that makes you forget who you are, where you become the other person instead. There is love that makes you prove yourself, love that makes you hate yourself. love that makes you want to cook, love that makes you throw everything away. Love that teachers, love that strangles, love that gives you the space you need.

There is love that leaves you waiting, and is it their fault or yours? Aren’t we just fucked up inside? Do we put up with things we shouldn’t? Are we hiding our true selves? Are we living in a world of make believe, hoping they’ll love the make believe in a way they would never love our damaged selves?

There is love that makes you wish we were old already, sitting in our rocking chairs, drinking iced tea. There is love that feels familiar, makes you breathe deeper and with relief. There is love that makes your breath quicken, like your head is on dire, like you can fly, makes you race up stairs, makes you run, towards it or away, with fear chasing behind you or leading the way.