between some air and ink.
between greeting cards and therapy.
and, in doing so, limit it.
in an attempt to squeeze an ounce of safety from it.
collectively trying to understand it.
And in the midst of all of the chaos is love.
Love has been dictated by a chemical response.
It’s become limited to blood relations and the chosen few.
revealing itself on marked calendars and over burnt candles.
We’ve cliched love at first sight.
And yet maybe it’s a truth deserved only to the open-hearted.
To be open-hearted means to have trust.
In who we really are.
It means that I know a knowing that does not come from my mind.
I know a knowing that IS Me.
Me with a capital M.
And this Me explodes with love because it IS love.
And if I am one than so are you.
But love has become cliche.
Its sacredness is smothered under an embroidered love quote pillow on your grandmother’s couch.
Love for your neighbor rarely exists because you don’t know your neighbor.
Love for yourself only manifests for the rare few who dig through all the murk to get down to the big bad truth.
Even love for your lover exists within the mundane package you’ve wrapped it in.