“My love is not pretty and gentle. My love is not stuttering apologies and little dresses and running around the corner store in the middle of summer, coating your body with sunbeams. My love is immune to naïveté. It is not bare feet and carefree; it is asphalt and weak knees. It is blacking out and forgetting what it feels like to kiss people without consequence. My love is purple, the sum of intense red strangled by daunting blue. I am afraid to show people how much they matter, but good God, do I let it rope around my neck like a noose. My love is a rain cloud, dark and dense, infused with too many feelings. When I am too full, my love bursts like raindrops engulfing your head in streams; like thunder in the middle of summer, you will be afraid of how much it takes out of you to overpower the sun. My love is not the sailboat or the ocean, but the storm that pushes it out to sea. My love refuses to stay standstill– it is always changing, but it never leaves.”
— My formal apology to the both of us for my inability to give you the love you wanted
