When I read about love…

When I read about love, I form the words into pictures that I hang around my house.

I take these snapshots into my every day and hold them up against the conversation I had with a stranger, or the text message that showed up a little too late.

Sometimes I hold the pictures to the sun until they are almost transparent. Until I start to wonder if there is any substance to them at all.

Mainly though, these pictures are used to soothe my old wounds. “This is what it was supposed to be,” I tell my bruised wrist. “Wouldn’t this have been better?” I ask the tongue-tied stars in my eyes.

Then I put the pictures in my pocket, hoping they will somehow tattoo themselves onto my too-thin skin. So that next time I will recognize the danger of someone who is just nice enough, but not nearly enough of what is needed.

When I read about love, I roll the words on my tongue like a party trick. They are meant to impress the baser parts of myself.

I spin them in acrobatic loops around my excuses, trying to catch my own attention.

Someday, I think, I will grow these words like seeds in my garden. And I will not forget to water them or bathe them in sunlight. They will be more than the pictures that I carry. They will be my words. Words that effortlessly mingle with action and intention.

And I will write them in the story of my life. You will read them and do with them what you will.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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