Not because I am done with it but because now that I’ve fallen out of it, or rather, it has simply dissipated, I cannot talk about it. Love is a thing that must be maintained, must be constantly stoked and kept alive, and mine has not.
I cannot write about it.
I cannot even meditate on it.
How can I? I know not the shape of my love anymore. I know not how her hips curve; I know not the sharpness of her chin, the slope of her nose, the hauteur of her breasts, the heft of her flanks, the softness of the touch of her hands, the length of her hair, the twinkle of her eyes or the taste of her kiss. I know not how her mind works, the thoughts she thinks, the ideas which lift her spirit, the words that break it, the words upon which she stutters or the sighs given me as a gift offering.
I know nothing of my love anymore and so it waits, it waits, a shadow on my brow, lurking over my shoulder, hidden in the back of my closet and captured behind the measures of music piped through my headphones.
For what can I add to the conversation but empty platitudes and surface observations?
So enough about it, for now, enough about it all. It shall keep again until it’s ready.
Until I am once again in love and then it will be all I can speak of, can think of–it will be all of me.