If an alien from another galaxy asked me about love, I would tell him to imagine the craziest thing and then multiply it by infinity. I would warn him as to how dangerous a thing it was, and how wars have been fought over the stuff and countless hearts have been crushed inside its grasp. I would let him know there are people who search for it their entire lives and never find it. And how there are people who wish they had never found it. I would liken it to jumping off the moon, sans gravity, and diving head first into the oceans below.
And when he asked me the obvious question . . .why? Why do humans yearn for something so crazy and dangerous as love? I would just smile before replying, “Because our bodies were made from the earth, but our souls were born to fly.”
It is within the extravagant mysteries of a universe that each and every moment is created. It created mine through the pulse of a story about the end of the world. And how ironic a thing that the end of one world was the beginning of another. Because that’s where love happened, in the telling of a story about living and dying, music and mortality . . . the here and the not here. Love was busy introducing itself inside the soft hums of labor that were unleashing themselves inside every provocative sounding verb, until the light of day caught its bloom and named it after the two of us.
And so we wrote, together. We wrote a love story whose madness was a brilliant tease for what was really going on between each line; as fiction became something less so and reality became the kind of fantasy you only see in movies. And so from the writing, we offered precious little sips of our respective worlds. I only found the nerve to tell her the good parts of me; afraid that sharing more might send her running. She cured me of this fear by sharing more of herself. Our fears lessened as our familiarity with each other grew.
I could sense it in her voice, that she had been waiting for someone to walk through that door for a very long time. But the something in her voice was also quite clear that she didn’t need me, or any other man to define her. This was a good thing, because I dig a woman who knows herself.
When we talked, everything in my head went quiet. I was convinced hers was the voodoo of ancient rituals. I would stare at her picture as we spoke on the phone and I would lose myself in her smile. That smile of hers was like an IV drip of sunshine straight into my veins. Her voice was this sensuous purr that made me tremble. It was as if she dipped each syllable in honey, because they reminded me of every Van Morrison song that ever caught fire. And her laugh . . . .it was the kind of laugh you leave the lights on for. Like . . forever.
They say that ninety percent of human interaction is non-verbal, and I would have to agree. Because we had a knack for turning texts into jam sessions and emails into advanced placement classes on pop culture. We made a glorious sound together, even when we did not utter a single word.
Of course, there were potholes along the yellow brick road, and when we ran across them it was as if that famous poet/philosopher Rudy Francisco was talking to us when he bitched about Cupid being fucking irresponsible. It was inside these times that old wounds became echoes and windows became reminders and the past seemed a prologue in spite of all those wonderful ‘coincidences’ wrought of sunflowers and stardust.
The absence of her was like watching a dandelion lose its mind in the wind, scattering a thousand seeds worth of memories across my everyday. Because she followed me wherever I went and there was no escaping her. And here’s the thing, I didn’t want to escape her. I wanted to be that vulnerable. As if to remind myself that ours was no ordinary thing. That it was different, unique.
And so, from the spaces in between she kept me company in my heart and in my mind. When a friend would tell me of their romantic entanglement, I would think of her. Or when I chilled to a certain song, she would be there inside the lyrics . . dancing. First thing in the morning, last thing at night.
Our separation, it was like our hearts had skinned their knees. But this was a good thing, because not having training wheels or elbow pads allowed our scars to tell a story. And ours was worth telling. And so we owned the bloody and the scabs and we could own the healing. And if the only thing we gained in staying was each other? Well my God, that was plenty and so very much more.
If I could tell that alien one more thing about love, it would be this. Try. No matter the odds, no matter the risk. Because in the trying is where you will find the some kind of wonderful that no other potion in the world can match. Because loving someone is the most exhilarating form of danger known to man. Because knowing how it feels? Is everything.
That’s how I feel, when she’s around. She makes me feel like Broadway. She makes me feel like I could swim the oceans. She makes me dance while standing still. She makes me feel like I could miss twenty three balls in a row at the batting cages and she would flash me this winning smile as if I just hit a home run in the ninth inning of a World Series game.
Maybe love stays, and maybe love can’t and maybe it shouldn’t. And maybe . . just maybe, love arrives exactly when it was supposed to. And maybe I need her. The way that big moon needs that open sea.
Like that. Entirely.