Love Hurts

Sometime in my life I remember reading a card defining love. It said something like: “Love is giving him the last bit of…” Or was it an advert? The sentence played in my mind because the gesture of giving is not a favourite of mine and the idea of associating love with giving turns love into some kind of huge charity bazaar. Though I find love difficult to define, it might be fun to write down my own “love list”, a sort of poem.

 

Love hurts
Love is pure joy

 

Love is rushing to meet him
Love is a pleasant game, one we spoil too soon
Love is breathing and smiling because of him
Love is thinking about him first thing in the morning
Love is trusting in your own instincts, even if you have to call him a liar in order to believe that you are loved back
Love is making him do things for you and tell you about them. If he is dumb, you will have to wear magnifying lenses
Love is doing something special for him every single day, and because people are blind and deaf in terms of noticing, you have to say it whenever you can

 

Love is talk
Love is silence
Love is absence
Love is togetherness

 

Love is recognizing your own feelings

in every book
in every movie
in every song
in every magazine

 

Love is buying silly stuff just to please him
Love is writing silly things just to make him smile
Love is loving yourself too so that magic is never lost
Love is forgetting a few deceptions that might come along
Love is admiring him for what he does right and feel sad when he does wrong

 

For women, love is a pretext for commerce. For men, an excuse for serfdom
Just a few avoid commerce
Just a few escape slave obedience
Love is not sex but resembles it in its giving potentiality
Sex is a school, through it
And often through infidelity
We kiss each other

 

Love is not a school but a mystery, a moment, a dream
Love is parallel to sex, close or very far from it
In the act of sex we recognize love or not
For the rest, it’s the same sigh, the same caress
For the one we love and for the one we love less
To love or not to love
Is love a perversion of sex?
Is sex a perversion of love?
Maybe the perversion is that sex exists without love
And we accept it
A consolation
Or the perversion is that love exists without sex
And we accept it too – as self-punition, evidently
Or maybe the perversion is that we accept too much

 

Maybe love and sex are supposed to happen like that
When we don’t have it or when it’s too little
We want more, we want endlessly
When it’s special and good we ignore it

 

I want more than love
The way books described it
I don’t know what I want

 

I failed love

 

Love never fails – they say
It’s life that stores it on shelves
With unused shoes or rusty garden tools

 

Love is sometimes recognizing
When love is no more
And let love go

 

Love is promise
Silences promising so much more than words
Hands promising so much more than they can hold
Needs promising so much more than inconsequent flirts

 

And now that love is addiction to promises that hurt
I promise myself to love till the end of the world

 

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