Poets try to explain, categorize the enormous feeling that love brings to the human chest. We try.
We love when we die. We will gladly die for the person.
Tickling the loves we have, having a quick conversation at the doorway and hearing giggles through the walls; how precious are these sounds.
Afraid to love, I hid. Folded away in a cave near the sea. I waited for the tide to go in and out. I hoped I would be taken with it. Loving became too painful. I squirreled my heart away like nuts which must be protected for the bleak winter ahead.
Along came a new love which burst my heart. Stirred my senses and made me willing to thrust my hand through the fog of my self and reach for the heart of someone else. I was warmed and felt confident. I dared to live; I dared to love. I dared to touch and be touched.
How can this be? The older I get the more I love and the less painful it may be? Or am I so isolated inside my life’s experiences I must be willing to take the hand next to mine and go through the garden to the other side. Not alone until there is no other way.