I love love. I love being in love. I fall in love easily and have gotten my heart ripped out of my chest and held in front of my crumpled body, dripping and bloody. I’ve cried. I’ve brooded. I’ve written angry “I hate you” letters, knowing they were really “Why won’t you love me back?” letters.
I’ve mailed them.
I’ve been thinking about about love over the past few months and all of the many men I’ve been with since I was fifteen years old. There have been one night stands, flings, monogamy, marriage, and quite a few affairs. I’ve been thinking about these many men, some of whom I thought I loved, but realize now, I didn’t.
I didn’t love them because my heart no longer aches for them. I don’t care much about where they are, or what they’re doing. They are simply chapters that have been edited from the book of my true loves. I remember them, but not fondly. I don’t long for their touch. My tears, I realize now, were a waste of my precious bodily fluids. My brooding, a waste of my time. The sex may have been good. But it wasn’t love. Just sex.
I get confused sometimes.
But there are a few who remain deeply embedded in my heart, in my soul and in my mind and I know that is where they will always remain, because when I think of them, I feel the aching.
And I want them back.
All of them.