“Last night I dreamed of love as a garden, and together we knelt in the dirt to pull the weeds we aren’t proud of, the ones we didn’t sow but that grow anyway, crowding the blooms we display so proudly. Left unchecked, we know, my weeds will spread to your own carefully tended soil. ⁣
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Today it is my garden we tend, and later it will be yours; we are here to wade into the dirt, to spend our days in the hot sunlight so when at last we look upon our garden we find no unwanted weed has flourished.”

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“Fire is closest thing I’ve known to you — the way it withholds judgment from those it warms, and how you will endlessly divide and multiply yourself to love those that need you. That don’t know they need you. That need love. It’s hard to tell the difference between fire and love. They are both artifacts of sensation, and yet neither can be denied.

Loving you, and being loved by you, is to be made of fire.”

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“I wonder what we will say about this winter when we are no longer here. “Here” being this little town home that held the first chapter of our love and perhaps the last pages of these days where we are bound wholly to ourselves.

I am repairing the dents and scratches in the walls with a tube of spackle and it makes me smile to think of the creases of me that you have so gently mended. We will leave this place with a fresh coat of paint — the walls and ourselves, ready for our next story.” 

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