Monday, January 21, 2008

Love is funny

Love is funny, an interesting phenomenon.

I cannot say that I know all about it. Or that I am an expert. Or that I will ever be.

When did I fall in love with him- my partner?

I do not know. I figure myself in love too quickly. We met, a blind date, and were soon in bed. Was that the moment?

I took him to my home, and we slept together the next night, again. We were together, always in the next two weeks. Long phone calls when apart, longing one for the other.

The weeks became months, and the months years. Sometimes I have felt more in love, and other times less. Yet there is little to deny it that we are in love.

Seven years.

They seem to have been very little.

Why do I love him? Maybe because he loves me.

Yesterday, we were in a bar where we are comfortable holding hands. Lots of other kuchus around us. Dark, warm kind of night. I did not feel like being frolicky, talking a lot. Just sat down and listened to the blasting music.

He came and sat near me. We were silent in the forest of music.

We held hands over the table, taking our beers.

One gal came and whispered in his ear about our naked display of affection. Lovebirds that do not seem to notice it any longer. Our nearness to one of the loudspeakers became intolerable. We moved away, to some chairs. Sat and listened to the music and miming and shouting and laughter. Holding hands under the chairs. There were lots of other people, non kuchus around. Needed to be less noticeable.

Despite the noise, the hilarity, the movement all around, I felt calm. Peaceful, just holding his hand. Warm, understood, no need to speak, or say what was in my mind. Communicating constantly through the pressure of our hands, our love, and connection.

He is gone to work, and I find myself thinking about him. About what I share with him which I do not with anyone else.

Love, love, however we define it.

I doubt I will ever be able to define that feeling of warmth and knowledge, one of another. It is there, tangible, diamonds in gold.

Indeed we do not bear rings on our fingers to tell the world of our love. But those rings are, round our hearts.


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