How do we know when we’ve fallen in love? What are the signs that we’ve abandoned ourselves to a greater cause? Is it a yearning or a hunger or a thirst? Is it applied like decoupage, or is it organic, building from within like Old Faithful, then erupting sending steam and the fragments of our carefully constructed lives upward and into the stratosphere. Just when do we listen to our corner man and decide to turn ourselves over to their instruction rather than muddle through another round of rockem’ sockem’ punches?
It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in love. Some say that the “in” of in love slowly cools like lava that rolls relentlessly forward to the edge of the sea and drops into the water turning to a black crystalline rock.
“What,” I asked, “do you mean? Do you mean that we lose the music of love and replace it by a nervous tap tap tap of bored fingers on a tabletop?” And what an annihilistic attitude to adopt! No wonder there’s always the ball and chain joke, but the groom to whom the joke is lobbed rarely laughs. Why on earth does falling in love have to become pedantic?
When I fall in love next I want it to be a cashmere blanket that someone tosses over my napping form; I want a thousand kisses as though I’d just walked into a butterfly exhibit; I want the clutching hands, the wandering tongues, and the hungry mouths of craving. I want strong hands to hold my strong hands. I want broad shoulders which will become my pillows. I look forward to clutching fabric while I cry.
And while I welcome the seasons of life to change, I refuse to accept that my lovers will become pedestrian. I’ve never been one to walk into love. Instead, I run in as though I were charging the waves on an ocean.