I Don’t Think I Know How To Write About Love Anymore
I search for my muse in the eyes of strangers and in the corners of cities, wondering which way my story will go.
I used to write about love a lot because I wrote about heartbreak. And that’s all I ever really remember about love—the downfall. The free-fall. The “it’s over,” once and for all.
I used to write love stories and love poems and love songs. I used to be hopeful, and I pray I haven’t turned hopeless.
I don’t think I know how to write about love anymore. Somewhere in my sadness lived a muse, and she was fierce with her words.
Her words caused still hearts to beat and stiff lips to smile. Her words turned cynics into believers.
Now I search for my muse in the eyes of strangers and in the corners of cities, wondering which way my story will go.
Recently, the only love story I know is the one about learning to love the company I keep: me. And that’s a love I know how to speak.
I may not remember what it’s like to feel safe in someone’s arms, but I know how to feel safe in my own skin.
I may not remember what it’s like to feel passion that burns off clothes, but I know about following passions that burn my soul.
I may not remember what it feels like to feel complete with somebody, but I know what it feels like to show compassion for the parts of me that are not whole.
I may not remember what it’s like to laugh with a lover until dawn, but I know what it’s like to dream freely until dusk.
I may not remember what it’s like to fall in love, but I know what it’s like to love myself even when I fall.
It’s one thing to find love with another, but it’s truly something else to find love within yourself.
It isn’t easy, but eventually you learn to love the person you fall asleep with, even if it’s only you stretching across the entirety of the bed.
I used to write a lot about love, and maybe one day I will again. Until then, I’ll continue learning how to love myself a little harder each day.
