It’s not about who you want to love. Love is very much like lust in that way. If you could fuck a hundred, you could love a hundred. And if a hundred fucks, or a hundred loves, there must be a hundred reasons to love the one of them who could love you.
Will she keep you honest when you’re having that asshole moment, when you don’t yet know how stupid you are in those thirty seconds between your idiot words and when you speak the words that tell her you’re sorry? And for those thirty seconds, will she still keep her hand on your cock, and look you straight in the eyes, waiting, because her love for you will not wane, even when it hurts her soul? And more important than that, will she tell you, right then, in that moment? Because you’re a fool sometimes, and you don’t want her to just get over it, you want her to share her disappointment or sadness or grief, even if, especially if, you are the one who caused it. Because that’s the only way you will learn how to love.
Because only the insanity should be temporary.
It’s not about who you want to love. It’s about who wants to love you. And if a hundred fucks, or one. A hundred loves, or one. A hundred reasons, or one.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday