Love, as space. Love, as absence. Love as boundary, boundary as invitation. Love as grief, and grief again, because you refuse to shut your heart down as long as it’s beating. Love as a contract to keep your heart beating. Love as life, and living. Love as seeing and not turning away. Love as a constant apology for our inevitable mangling of love. Love as heartbreak, heartbreak as addition. Love as silence. Love as stillness. Love as urgency. Love as a dark room, with dark corners, and a flashlight. Falling away from love. And falling for it. And sitting on the edge of it like a fountain in the city, only halfway because you’re not sure how long you’ll stay, but happy to be there. Cool spray on your arm, tossing pennies in and praying it’s worth it. That someone can feel you even though you’re alone. Or is thinking of you even though you can’t feel them. Love as crossed wires in the fallibility of our words, and our minds, and the platforms that are not love. Platforms that love us to build walls rather than climbing them and sitting on them to get to know each other. To listen to what you have to say and consider it and get back to you later. I’ve been writing about love for longer than I care to admit. For longer than I realized, really. But I remember now. And forgetting anything that guarded this moment is my greatest pleasure.