After my divorce, I wondered if I would ever love again, but then I met you, and I realized that I hadn’t even experienced love yet. Like a tiny, brainless shrimp swimming into the unfathomable jaws of a whale, I dove selflessly into love with you. For the first time in my life, I gave whatever I could to be with you. Under the light of your face, I could come eye to eye with my problems and not just admit them without shame, but imagine there was a chance that they could ever be solved.
I no longer wonder why they call it “falling” in love. Nobody rises into love.
When two objects fall, all they have is the draw of their own gravity. Put two bowling balls in a crate and drop it from a plane, and they’ll collide together as the drop negates the pull of Earth’s gravity. They cling together like idiot lovers until the ground offers up its unavoidable halt, and all you’ve got left are two fat bowling balls, trying to roll over the dusty ridges and byways of an uncaring world. This is what they call “falling out of love,” when the hopes and dreams you saw in someone else turn out to be the plain and simple curves of yet another bowling ball.
I still love you, and I hate it. It cannot certainly be love. Real love rises. It is like two birds flying together for the winter, converging in the same path, sharing the same trade winds, but still separate beings, flapping their own individual wings.
I saw you flap away tonight, forever, with a smile on your face and a “best wishes” in your final crow. You flew away alone, and I sit here alone, fat and stupid as a big, black ball. I hate you. I love you. Someday I will fly as well, and I hope I can pass you by, and all the hurt and resentment and mistrust and deception I can dump out of me, as thick and dull as a single, blunt orb, and although I don’t wish you ill…
…I will not be sad if its gravity pulls you down a few miles on its way.