Love is a comma. Placed by a hesitant hand. Love is a hopeful phrase uttered through a shy smile. Love is a pause. A suspense. A lacunae in which to drift with another. It is a time and a place in which you were better and freer and more perfectly formed than ever before. It is a surrender to the eternal rushing that is within and without.
Then you realise that this pure love is transient. The essence can only linger for a while and then recollection takes over. Take care.
Love you see is the thing that makes us old. It is the memory of a cherished unalterable book: but not the words. It cannot be returned to.
The memory of it will change as you do. So put love away and wait.
Cherish it sparingly. Look for it passively. (Good luck with that.)
Love can only be joined. It will find you. Hopefully.
And remember that perhaps something comes after. And if it does come again – this impostor – be welcoming but wait. Be wary. Take care.
Love must be lived and then left. Don’t look back.
It is frail but not meek, and utterly unconquerable.