Love is never conceived. We are eternally pregnant with it.
Afraid, I have held it in, reluctant for it to begin a life, because every life that it begins has an end. Every going out has a coming back. Every nova, a collapse.
Love in the womb is safe, untroubled, content. No worry or grief befalls it, untouched and unknown, isolated in a pool of silence.
I called love back like a wayward child, scolded it and caused it to revert and shoved it back into the recesses of my being. I called love back for talking to the deaf and dancing for the blind and painting beautiful souls in their dark costumes. But then, I could no longer speak or dance or paint.
Love obeyed, slowly and reluctantly, and hid again, but she’s too big to live inside for long.
“Here Comes the Sun” is playing in the cafe.