There is no lover’s dictionary. No universal definition to the flutters and thuds of the human heart. Love exists in the language of private metaphor, in the image sought through fingers reaching, through eyes slow-closed and teeth on lip.
See, I could fill rooms and mouths to understand just what it was you did to me. I could pour ink through my fingers, spill memories across the page until they form the neatest of lines. I could attempt to distill what survived, sift through the words to find some greater truth about love. And you.
But I will come up empty every time. Desire, love, eludes the grasp. The chemistry, the alchemy? The way you altered me? This above all remains our mystery.
“A single metaphor can give birth to love” – Milan Kundera