Love isn't painful; the losing part is. Sometimes it's a nightmare, or a daydream, or just staring at a missed call that collapses my heart with the realization of what it has to lose. If imagination can make a loss this painful, I'm scared of reality.
Love lasts longer than life does. I think of all the bad timing in the world and then of the fragility of our bodies, and wonder how long we can be this lucky. There's stupidity, there's hatred, there's paranoia, and then there's just pure bad luck, and they aren't out to get me but they're still out to get someone. The scary part is that they always do.
It hasn't been me, and it hasn't been someone I love yet. But I live in a paranoid world of running from these reminders; these nightmares, daydreams, and real-life scares that leave me holding my phone to my damp face just so I can hear their voice again.
We start with a little heart filled with a handful of clay called self-love and every time we let ourselves love someone else, we add another piece of another type of clay onto our hearts. Every addition is kneaded into our self-love clay; kneaded thoroughly by time, memories, and their presences.
Every time my imagination comes back to haunt me, I remember how painful it is going to be when Death decides it's going to start picking bits of someone else's clay out of my heart. But until then, the only thing I can imagine doing is to continue letting time, memories, and their presences knead more of their clay into mine. I'm so thankful for each of them, and how much they've built onto what began as just a little heart full of self-love clay.
The losing part is painful; love itself isn't. It's discovery, it's heaven, it's safety, and it's the kind of warm you feel when you're holding your phone to your damp face, and they pick up on the other side.