short stories

January 12, 2022

a hundred love stories

I wish I could tell you a hundred love stories with a hundred happy endings. 

But all I have is the truth.

And the truth is, Love is dead.

Melodramatic, I know, but, 

I don’t think any of us really know what Love truly is. I mean, it’s a noun, technically… a thing. Something we all want to have. Or hoped to have…maybe even had at some point. Like that vintage salt shaker set you found a thrift shop; two owls eyeing each other, but then one fell on the floor and shattered. And now just one of you has the Love.

But Love is also a verb and I think that’s where we get stuck. Do any of us really know HOW to Love? The actual doing of Love? It’s like Life threw all of us into the deep end of the pool even though we can’t swim and was like, best of luck, don’t fuck each other up or drown. 

But we do. 
The fucking, but especially the fucking up. 

And we keep coming back for more. 

Because the one thing worse than feeling your heart break is feeling alone. So we keep spinning; swirling and twirling and gyrating back to the one thing that makes us feel alive. 


Or the bones of it. 
We’re still working on the kinks.