I Don’t Think I Know How To Write About Love Anymore


I used to write about love a lot because I wrote about heartbreak.⁣ And that’s all I ever really remember about love—the downfall. The free-fall. The “it’s over,” once and for all. ⁣

I used to write love stories and love poems and love songs. I used to be hopeful, and I pray I haven’t turned hopeless.⁣⁣

I don’t think I know how to write about love anymore. Somewhere in my sadness lived a muse, and she was fierce with her words. ⁣

Her words caused still hearts to beat and stiff lips to smile. Her words turned cynics into believers.⁣⁣

Now I search for my muse in the eyes of strangers and in the corners of cities, wondering which way my story will go.⁣

Recently, the only love story I know is the one about learning to love the company I keep: me. And that’s a love I know how to speak. ⁣⁣

I may not remember what it’s like to feel safe in someone’s arms, but I know how to feel safe in my own skin.⁣

I may not remember what it’s like to feel passion that burns off clothes, but I know about following passions that burn my soul. ⁣

I may not remember what it feels like to feel complete with somebody, but I know what it feels like to show compassion for the parts of me that are not whole. ⁣

I may not remember what it’s like to laugh with a lover until dawn, but I know what it’s like to dream freely until dusk.⁣⁣

I may not remember what it’s like to fall in love, but I know what it’s like to love myself even when I fall. ⁣

It’s one thing to find love with another, but it’s truly something else to find love within yourself. ⁣

It isn’t easy, but eventually you learn to love the person you fall asleep with, even if it’s only you stretching across the entirety of the bed.⁣⁣

I used to write a lot about love, and maybe one day I will again. Until then, I’ll continue learning how to love myself a little harder each day.