i’m pondering all the ways you can be in love, as if love was a thing tangible you could get inside of, like a sleeping bag, or like a warm plaid peacoat.

or falling out of love, like it was  a moving car, or an airplane (like that csi episode of the lady being pushed out of the plane and her shoe causing it to crash; disastrous). or falling off an sled just as it speeds up faster and faster and landing face first in the cold, frozen snow. or what we used to do as kids, getting in the hot tub and jumping into the pool. hot; cold.

can one be on the side of love? like sitting next to a very old tree with a book, reading, enjoying one another’s company but not asking anything of eachother. or standing next to a sky scraper looking up and up cracking your neck expecting something wonderful to happen when you see the top; and ending up with a feeling of dizziness and nausea.

to be near love might like the horse you always wanted and dreamed about and asked santa for and wrote stories about; but when you got older you realised the more practical thing would be to want a car. you meet someone and you want them so bad and you dream about them yet you never really pause to stop of the practical things; stables, horse manure, the care and the hard work to keep the horse. wow, uh, that sounds really coarse, but do you see my point?

and of course, when you fall in love, and then fall out of love, (what is with the falling? we sound either like leaves or flightless birds)  you want to find the way back into love. (watched music and lyrics yesterday, forgiveness please) Love is that one section of books at that really lovely large old library that you can never quite find again. and you search and search and start wondering if you made up that wonderful peaceful section by the bay windows, with the lacey curtains and the view across the city.

Love lost is like all of those hair ties and bobby pins and pens that you buy so much of yet continue to loose over and over again. maybe thats too pesimistic. Love lost is like your favorite pair of socks of which one sock is missing and it drives you crazy looking for it; you take all the clothes out of your dresser and end up dropping some bags off at Goodwill. Love lost is like the letter someone wrote to you that you desperately want to find again yet you know that it was thrown away; you just blot out that memory and deny that its in some land fill rotting or was recycled to make something new.

maybe the point of love lost is that it always will be found again or make someone else very happy. hmm.

i am basking in similies and metaphors.