Maybe the love we want isn't for the ages — but for the pages. It's like neatly folding a paper heart into a perfectly symmetrical way, only to be tucked away into a chest; untouched, unscathed, sealed tightly and forever out of reach. The love we get is fragile, torn at the seams, and riddled with so many holes that light could leak through.
You reached for your pocket and unfolded yours for me. Even with all its creases, I still managed to make a love note out of its parchment. You even allowed me to crumple it up and throw it across the room. I didn't.
Maybe the love we want is for the pages. Sit on a desk with me, and let our love break the law until we run out of room to write upon.
July 14, 2020 Painting by Rachel Anne Jones
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