With only you. With only me. Love.

My heart hurts after yoga. We did hip openers, so there shouldn’t be a correlation. Except that my heart didn’t hurt before class and now it most currently does. At the end when my legs laid flat up the wall I thought about the face of love. How I’ve given it, how I’ve seen it, how I’ve felt it, how I want it, desperately again.

And then about how this natural, normal, human emotion of love is so complex. How we’ve—Society—have made it so complex.

We are so fucking guarded. Now. All of us. We won’t make those big leaps of faith, say those grand statements, we won’t give of ourselves as fully as we really can, as we really should, because we are all so fucking scared of getting hurt. We should stop being so fucking scared of getting hurt.

We are going to get hurt.

And then I think of how I’ve given it.

In poems measured with pace and romantic sincerity. In words weighted with more than I love yous. In verses so heavy in heart that my pen cannot hold their mass.

And then I think of how I’ve seen it. Love.

In grandparent public hand holds. In Bride-Groom glances. In airport reunions. In prom nights. In Sunday brunches. In breakfast in bed. In bed. In your eyes.

And then I think of how I’ve felt it. Love.

In opening doors. In giving the bigger piece of pumpkin pie. In letters, written, stamped, mailed. In forehead kisses. In closed mouth neck kisses. In kiss the ouie away kisses.

And then I think of how I want it. Love.

Without guard. Without qualifiers. Without stipulations. With passion. With letting me in. With inside jokes. With encouragement. With looks that linger. With hands that hold. With Michael Jackson car ride dance offs. Without guard. Without barriers. With only you. With only me. Love.

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