Love is being able to look deeply into someone’s eyes and no matter what they look like, i do not need to avert my gaze. Love is marveling at the connectivity between me and someone else as we read Bukowski or hold hands and walk through the city at night after seeing “Once.” It’s holding on to someone at two in the morning, on an airplane coming back from Vegas, or driving through the desert and both knowing the history of the land and sharing in that. It’s crying together. It’s worrying about the other. It’s thinking of the other when the other isn’t present. It’s dreaming and living it out at the same time. It’s dancing slowly to Guy Petersen’s voice as he sings Unchained Melody in an empty bar in Wildwood. It’s driving silently down the road and trusting in the driver. Parking way out in the back yard, top down, watching stars fall. It’s playing Damien Rice’s “Delicate” over and over and over and over again while making love on a hot summer night with no air conditioning because we both hate what it does to the environment. Love amazes, never hurts. It heals, it trusts. It makes you feel ALIVE. It makes you want to listen to music and hummm, hummm, hummm that same tune until everyone around you wants to vomit.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” -Jack Kerouac