The thing about love and letting go of love is that you can’t force either.
But isn’t that what makes love beautiful?
The fact that it’s so stubborn– resilient– mighty.
It doesn’t matter how many times you try to knock it down. Even when it’s not consuming you, the feelings, the remnants, the pieces, the entirety of it– the hurt, the joy, the anger, the anguish, the light– hibernate. Dormant, until a flood of tears breaks at the shooting of a single trigger of a memory or a sight– a picture or a song. Still there, even if replaced by another.
Is love more profound in its presence or in its absence?
Perhaps both, yet different shades birthed the same mother hue.
Love– the longing for your beloved– is walking under the star filled sky, basking in the beauty of the night, yet feeling a tug of loneliness wishing that your beloved was next to you to enjoy it with. No amount of light can satisfy you as long as the invisible presence of your love persists. Love is not being able to fall asleep late into the night, a cruel void making a host of your gut, tingling throughout your veins faster than your blood, loneliness filling your stomach where the warmth of love should be– the embrace of the one you love starkly absent despite the relentless heat and life pumping throughout your body. Love is hurting, trying to patch up your own bleeding wounds with just enough care to spare for yourself– yet still, you scrambling to bandage the wounds of someone else. Love is someone you care about being the reason for your pain, but you still holding on to their goodness to keep yourself from drowning. It’s needing to hold onto their goodness to keep them from drowning– them hurting is your hurting. Love is being so angry at someone that you are suffocating in your rage but your willing to understand them and your willingness to forgive win the continuous battles against any intrusion of animosity and revenge– until one day the latter army gives up their fight.
The thing about love is that it never goes away.
It can stay asleep. It can wear a mask. It can be blunt and upfront.
It survives either– a beautiful monster, even if it is darkness wresting the light way past the night.
It survives as wounds fresh, and scars never completely gone.
An immortal warrior, beautiful in itself, beautifully ugly, made up of the moon and the sun– a constant war.
A beast welcomed, its beauty honed by its scars.