Love isn’t pretty, because neither are people.
And isn’t love just two imperfect people on a pathway to a high speed collision?
Ugly, complex souls beginning to navigate towards each other and then, like two meteorites, strike and burst into millions of pieces.
And then they become one.
But the ugliness doesn’t stick, and the pieces are too complex.
Broken things can’t be fixed, and nothing can become whole again.
He and I were two galaxies, filled with stars and secrets and planets of the past too perplex to mix.
But love wasn’t mean to be pretty.
Being in love is raw.
It is jealous. And ironically, hateful.
Love is an ignited flame at the tips of your fingers, too powerful to control, and too desperate to want, but there you go. We crave it.
Crawl on our hands and knees for love. We all do. He does. I do. So we will love.
We will love and it will be ugly. It will be brilliant.
It will be too bright to stare at and it will fill our galaxies up. Until we perish.
As love always does.