Cloy

D****t, I fell in love.

It’s that strange suffocation in your chest when you think of them. Is that infatuation? Maybe. But this feeling isn’t butterflies, not at all. I don’t have butterflies as much anymore. It’s something more, something deeper, something richer. I have nothing to compare it to and nothing to compare him to, which some may regard as naïve to think that I really feel it with him. And if you think about it too much you run the risk of talking yourself out of it, into doubting that it is what you think it is. It couldn’t be love, right? Ultimately, though, it’s beyond thought. Love is an undercurrent to many (and some would argue all) aspects of our lives. It’s simultaneously light and freeing as well as strong and clawing. Heavy and pure. Happiness and that slight squeeze in your throat. I’d like to think that I could follow all those spiritual teachings about love not being personal, but instead all-pervading; if he wanted me to let go, I would try to let go. But there’s something inside me that coils and shrieks at the thought of a life without him.