love is...
drabbles about attachment, infatuation, obsession.
terrifying. it's coming up on the edge of a cliff. it's the feeling of falling freely, blindly, not knowing if what awaits you at the bottom is something that will cradle or ruin. it's the loss of all strings previously holding you in place. you flail in the air, attempting to grab onto anything that can slow your rapid descent, but you're already in the process of slipping. it's sweaty palms, the jump of your heart, a twisting feeling in your chest that you're certain has to be from illness, though would you really be wrong?
exciting. above all else, it's fun. it's running without rhyme, reason, or any particular goal. the only destination is wherever your feet lead you. directions and inhibitions are thrown to the wayside in place of chasing the resulting high. laughter is what consumes your breath, and when you do manage to take in air, it's light and refreshing. at the summit, nothing else really matters.
fickle. it's the flip of a coin, the roll of a die. it's the adoption of a role, playing a part, then stepping off the stage once it ends. it's a tree that flowers for one season, then lies in wait for the next. blossoms fall to the ground and wither, returning to the earth knowing the cycle will begin itself anew. it's the rapid pace of feet against the floor, never staying in one place for longer than what's needed, longer than what's wanted.
unnecessary. a purposeless, meaningless endeavor. it's an wilted branch you prune, a cancerous growth you cut out, a leaking pipe you choke off the supply to before it can do any further damage. it's something you can only stand to witness from a distance, if at all. unwanted and unsought by you, all it exists as is a burden, an obstruction, a hindrance to your goals. it isn't for you.
comforting. it's a warm meal at the end of a long day. it's a thumb on the back of your hand, ghosting over your knuckles. it's a heartbeat placed against your ear, clearing your head, easing your mind, lulling you to sleep. it's peace, rest, relaxation, and reassurance in one. it's the knowledge that there is always a home waiting for you.
painful. how many times can a thread fray before it snaps? how many times can glass shatter until its fragments are too small to hold? it's skin scrubbed red, raw, scarred at the seams, stitched and stapled and sutured to the point even the slightest touch burns, and you recoil in pain. it's what stings under mild warmth, nerve endings firing repeatedly, all too used to the motions of tearing itself open, just barely realigning its pieces, then being met with same damning cuts yet again.
difficult. it's a period of silence, then words neither can take back, then silence again. it's a jumbled mess of wants, of needs, of attempts at forming a cohesive union between different people. it's compromising, relinquishing control, stepping back when you know space is needed, yet not leaving even when it presents itself as the easiest option.
desperate. it's all you have, and all you ever want to. it's the lifebuoy thrown to you when you're stranded in the middle of the ocean. it's the rush of oxygen filling your lungs after you choke out all the water that occupied it previously. you reach up seeking more rescue breaths just to grasp that sense of salvation once more. fingers dig into flesh into muscle into bone into marrow. won't they meet you with the same intensity you're showing them?
