My Love is from a run down part of town where the kids may not be nice to each other, the parents might be too busy working but if you really understood the thing that is human survival you would understand the thing that is everything here, among the broken down, happy but not rich denizens of this sprawling concrete pile, is Love. In a sad, cosmically and comically unpleasant sort of buzzing in the back of ones head, these people might not quite see that it is all Love, but will all be touched by it, by the pure fact that after you have boiled down our relation to one another from anything else, Love is what these people have to live with, eat with, breathe with.
My Love might not get you flowers, or write you letters, but will think of you always and fondly recall the way you do these things for me. My Love appreciates your Love.
My Love is tougher than steel-plated-toughness and is known to withstand nuclear blasts. After the fools of man have had their way with this planet, this people, and the Love of a dying world, the survivors will be; cockroaches, Twinkies, and My Love.
My Love sees the miracles in life, sees the world as a child sees it, and seeks out Pure Joy wherever it might be lurking. They were roommates at university, so things can get a little crazy when they’re together.
My Love is always sad to see you go; always happy to be with you.
My Love doesn’t need, doesn’t want, doesn’t understand, and can’t be told no. It doesn’t ask to be felt, it simply pervades like street lamp light. It is not the bulb, not the pole, it is the thing that you are seeing when you are seeing but contains none of the properties of the thing you observe and encompasses all of them with a soft, lulling glow. I just hope it’s not one of those god-awful orange street lights. Some times it might be, and I guess that’s okay because it is better to see than not to see; better to Love than not Love, and even when the light is off the Love would still be there – maybe scared but maybe not? I’ve been in the dark before and the Love felt fine to me so I guess it really isn’t scared at all, but like an observed particle the acknowledgment, salutation, and ‘how do you do?’ of Love will only happen to result in a measurement unpredictable and most certainly not the same as an unmeasured unobserved un-intruded upon particle and I am certain that I have not yet found a method of observation that did not yield an unpredictable result which leads me to believe that there is magic in this world because after all the years of scientific progress a quantifiable entity such as the thing that I am can not begin to quantify the nothing that is everything to me; Love.
My Love hopes you don’t mind that I wrote this at 5am.