Love is slow pain. Glorious tearing apart. Threads about to snap that never do, only reach themselves to the point where if you quieted yourself you would hear the hum of their fibers stretching. Split second millimeter before breaking point. Stuck in suspense.
Love is a certain breed of silence. It is an expanse. Half-dry plains, rolling soft hills, like the curves in children’s arms. No ill-intent was ever breathed, but then in a blink, the wrong kind of silence cuts through all the ship-sized ropes you thought you spent those hours and days and months and years braiding together. Just ruptures against itself like razor diseased cells turning and slicing through their own host. Love turns every direction and sets loose it’s trajectory so quickly. Twisted pathways of a dozen snowflakes as they fall toward a busy freeway bridge.
The reason one respects long love so much is because it never gives up. No matter how many times people split themselves into wrenched and serrated piles of metal over each other, they never fold. Sand being struck by lighting and melting it into hard, sculptural veins. Upside down silica icicles. Stalactites that fray outward in tentacle movement freezing themselves upon the first sign of love turning away.
No matter how many times the smallest drip of water tries to erase away the ground that you’ve built up between you. Tries to create a river that washes away all connection, even making light-sucking trenches between the two of you, you don’t give up. Untouched top ground becomes the first layer of shared moments; outward projection to a frenzied expectancy. They see climbers on twin summits of parallel cliffs, but take no account of the years that carved canyons around their temporary feet. How many rains exfoliated the layers of sediment away until ravines surround the peaks and still, still there’s a steady gaze between you both. A scant, worn, handwoven bridge churning in mid-air, miles from the ground, not a second thought toward breaking. People like to see height, not depth.
So love is slow pain. Ripping course fabric. Sick starfish whose legs crawl away from each other until their insides spill out into the tide pools. Giving in all different directions. Giving until you keel over in exhaustion and still have to give more. Walking on your own guts with an outstretched arm saying take more of me, I love you. You want love? Long love? True love? You can’t have it without working for it. You don’t get to even brush the edges of love’s sweet swinging coat tail without