Romantic love, I have no idea. Right now I feel like a fucking teenager. I am completely out of my depth. My palms are sweaty. I am writing a name on lined notebook paper. I am dreaming. I am drowning.
Maybe romantic love is both selfish and selfless in that I don’t want to be selfless. I want to be selfish and greedy. I want her all to myself because I do not like to share. But. If it was in her best interest, I would try to be the best version of myself. I would try to be selfless even though it would feel like I was cutting the most necessary part of myself out.
It’s getting tongue tied when we talk on the phone because the sound of her voice is home. It’s the rush of pure joy when I see her name anywhere. The way my head spins during those first moments each time we see each other and how it feels like electricity is just pulsing through my skin when she is near. Being made to blush at an age when blushing is absurd. It’s the softness of skin and the warmth of lovely hands. It’s my heart pounding when I write to her or read something from her or think of her or breathe the same air as her. It’s the quiet I feel when we’re together, the sense of absolute completeness, where I want for nothing. Understanding greeting cards and feeling no embarrassment about that. It is opening my hands and saying here is the world, if you would let me give it to you.
Jealousy, white hot jealousy, over both trivial and nontrivial things. Some people have mature and evolved theories about jealousy and what it means and you know, I don’t really care. I am not that woman. I get jealous, possessive, not unhealthily, just enough to remind me of what’s at stake.
There is desire and [redacted] and [redacted] and [redacted].
Being unafraid to show the ugliest parts of myself and bear witness to the ugliest parts of someone else and being willing to hold that ugly gently. We. Us. Together. Knowing you can be both strong and fragile. A willingness to tear down the walls you no longer need. Letting someone reach your warm. Reaching for their warm.
Maybe romantic love is knowing how something is going to end, knowing what is inevitable, and jumping in heart first, rib cage torn apart, blood rushing, anyway.