:: archives ::
january 4, 2002 // love //
"...The reality was, you only knew you were loved if you were left and returned to, if you were ignored and then craved. occasionally you would be seen for slightly less than the sum of your parts, and that was love, too. love announced itself with a sting, not a pat. if love was love, it was urgent and ripe and carried with it the faint odor of humiliation, so that there was always something to be made up for later, some apology in the works. love was never clean, never quiet, never polite. love rarely did what you asked it to, let alone what you dreamed it might do, and it most certainly did not know that your favorite color was blue.
--"the brutal language of love" by alisa erian (pg.153)