It is rare for me to write about love.
It is rare for me to write about love, or infatuation, or l'amour et ses jouissances inévitables. I do not write about death's immutable translation, or sacred loss, or the mourning of pneumatic cessation. I am lax with my coverage on coming of age, on explicit maturity, on macromorphoses disregardful of the tritely minute.
It is because I do not know how.
How does one write about the Universal without reiterating what centuries of wiser men have already shared with us? How does one write of love, of death, of time and being? How does one write of the Relevant without undoing one's own Relevance? How to write of true love (so Relevant; so Important) truly?
Today, I will try.
I love him.
I know: it is the 1-4-3 of which the purest speak, a cannonball to the chest, I lay still, defeated by this concretion of my internal notions, made external, now, silence spawning sound,
aɪ ləv yü
wailed breathlessly, the agony and ecstasy of commencement its only concerns, its limbs flailing, its potential limitless.
I love him more than life itself; literary 'figurations intermingle between our breasts as we promise each other the world. Because this, because this, what we feel for each other, in the folds of our matters and the curves of our skins, and in the Redwood seeds we sow together, this unfettered passion, this Love, once inside, urges us, whispers to us that we can, the Love infuses us with possibility; we can, we can, we can, and why; because we do.
Why; because we are.
I love him. I do, I do, I do.