The Death of Love
by OneTaste New York Mar 6, 2014
Really, for me, love used to be defined inside that moment when you break up, or almost break up, and then that pain sweeps through your body like crackling electric chunks of metal in your bloodstream and your heart literally hurts and you turn back to them, and see in their shiny eyes they feel the pain too, and you rush to each others embrace (because the word embrace is specially reserved for romance novels and maybe occasionally spiritual returning-to-god writings) like tidal waves crashing together, silently or maybe out loud promising yourself and them that you have seen the light and you are still in love with them (because what could hurt that badly if not the ache of "in love") and you will never question it again and try to leave it again. It was that moment of eyes locked in regret, in pain, in the destabilized climax of the relationship, and then the sweet resolution of reconciliation.
My longest relationship was this in a nutshell every day, for six years. I am fairly certain that I have, currently, had my fill of this "in love."
My most recent relationship (one year) was perfect. Not dumb perfect, hallmark cards and flowers perfect, but like actually genuinely deeply in that perfectly flawed way perfect. Where our fights were real and rich and scary because we wouldn't compromise any part of ourselves to appease but intensely felt and understood how much we meant to each other simultaneously. His arrogance was rage-inducing hot. His blind spots made sense to me and drove me crazy in a way that made me grow up. His unerring sight of my imperfections was like surgery, and I hated him for it in the moment and then loved him in recovery. He would tuck me in and kiss my face. He would look through me into the back of my soul and touch it without hesitation, and possess it and unearth me.
This is why, when the words came into me from the deep-inside-beyond-thought place, "I don't want a boyfriend," it was like my mind turned it into Chinese and I couldn't hear the translation for three days. In the car late at night a friend finally said, "what's the truest thing." And out it slipped, and with it came the slow avalanche of change. The relationship ended, and more than that, my concept of "love" began to quake.
I saw this black and white clip tonight of a TV couple kissing desperately and all I could think was, that's a bunch of codependent crap - they should just break up. And then I felt something in my heart crack. Something irretrievable. A very old thought-structure that had gotten me many heated moments of sensation and electricity, and many hours, days, and months spent in desperation and heartache, for which I am genuinely grateful. The sense of loss pierced but a sense of newness emerging whispered to me softly. I know that when something crumbles, an unknown element of me is rising.
Make no mistake, I am a believer in love. For now, I will take it straight up, un-contained and with the undeniable knowledge that all tributaries eventually make their way back to the ocean from whence they came.