How I love being in love (and miss it dearly so)

Oh, love.

The tramp and maiden of prose and poetry,

a many-splendored thing,

our only need.

I think of the lyrics,
"how falling in love feels for the very first time,"

and it seems to me that each time ought to be considered a first

because each is so utterly different.

Sometimes it’s adventurous.

Sometimes it’s entirely reasonable.

Sometimes it’s indelible,

and other times fleeting.

Though while I think love is electric,
a brilliant and vivacious animal if ever there was one,
I think Love is essentially commitment.

And how.

It is the understood yet continually surprising showing up.

Love isn’t defined by the excitement to see the other

or thoughts of them floating in the forefront of your mind.

Love is when you know in your gut that,
for better or worse,
you won’t be the one to leave.

This Love is masochistic, sometimes.

You gotta do what you gotta do.

This Love is difficult, every time.

And that’s not to say all the time,

but when it’s tested,

when it’s challenged,

when it matters that it’s there,

it is a worthy trial.

These relationships are so interesting.

So personal.

Personalities all their own,

each as unique as I suppose they ought to be,

and each the offspring of two beings

each greater than their self,

yet transcended through the

lovechild of these selves, made whole: 

the love of two consciousnesses

is fertile,

and often begets one mind,

one heart,

one soul.

Oh, love.

I love love.

I love being in love.

And I don’t care what it does to me.

[y’know, to borrow from the Format]