10.3.22
I thought - as we talked on the phone late last night while I was on the bus - how to love without form?
It's a poet's wish, or maybe wisdom, to think that love cannot be contained in form at all. I was telling you how at night, grief makes my heart grow large in my chest. A dark kind of watering. How the grief becomes sharp and delicate. How I try to be as still as I can, because when I move too much, it feels as if it might cut up my insides. You thought this was intense and that you did not feel that way. I texted ______: Love is funny. It doesn't like being in a box.
______, replying to me: did you want a box love ? I: I don't ever want a box love. I want an ocean love. ______: I wonder.
Now that I've let love out of the box, it keeps growing, larger than I imagined it could be. It's running down the hill, rumbling with immensity. It might devour me and you with its appetite.
It's a poet's wish, or maybe wisdom, to think that love cannot be contained in form at all. I was telling you how at night, grief makes my heart grow large in my chest. A dark kind of watering. How the grief becomes sharp and delicate. How I try to be as still as I can, because when I move too much, it feels as if it might cut up my insides. You thought this was intense and that you did not feel that way. I texted ______: Love is funny. It doesn't like being in a box.
______, replying to me: did you want a box love ? I: I don't ever want a box love. I want an ocean love. ______: I wonder.
Now that I've let love out of the box, it keeps growing, larger than I imagined it could be. It's running down the hill, rumbling with immensity. It might devour me and you with its appetite.
And this morning, I wrote - can I really believe love is ubiquitous, plentiful, and inevitable?
And if I believed it, how would I live?
(I'm not sure if I have a choice. I am hungry too. for me. for you. for faith.)
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