It is not a small love.
It is a big, messy, wild love. It is moss and thicket, and forest floor. It is tangled vines and surviving light, and the shocking red of a determined flower. It is a love that has always grown best in the dark.
It is not a polite love.
If the heart is a fist, this is the punch it delivers. A love that sinks ships then trawls them for their treasures, a love that will search every room to find what lays beating deep in the chest. It is a love that never stops seeking a truth that is hidden.
It is a love that is tender and generous, still.
A love that reaches at five am, that finds its expression in the dusty light and drowsy touch of morning storms. A love made from the heaviest air and an opening sky. It is a love that rains down for days.
This love that sheds its skin a hundred times – and more. Grown too large to be contained by the shelter of gods and boxes, and easier terms. This love that is mine
and was yours and is now.
(It does not know its time or place. And it bursts with life in its own conclusion).
“Ordinary life does not interest me.” ~ Anais Nin