We’re afraid.

We’re afraid of the exquisite pain of loving our beloved fully.

If we allowed ourselves to stay open

after the initial rush of hormones and neurotransmitters subsided…

we would have to break.

Our hearts would break

to hold the love for another who becomes

our family,

our every

day

life,

our “other half”…

One who gives us gifts like

children,

experiences,

opportunities to grow.

To see the perfection and beauty in it all

might be so bright that 

our eyes would burn,

we’re afraid.

 

So we pick

and poke one another instead.

We seek

blame,

fault,

reasons for our tiredness

or annoyance,

proof of transgression,

comparison…

all things less than love

that are easier on the eyes

and the heart.

 

We save the great pain for the end.

We can cry then

and everyone will understand.

How would we explain crying every day

over the sight of his smile,

or the sound of her laugh,

or over dinner?