For is love the kiss, the rush the padlock on the bridge; a photo with a bunch of ruby red shiny balloons in front of the Eiffel Tower, made of plastic, cast away the shiny scarlet slithers streaking their way through the strata of another rubbish van’s deposit into landfill? Why is love the longing and desire the complications, contradictions an immense interleaved mess inherited emotions deep inside our frail structure made of something, clutched chasing, haunting driving us together, away, within a buzz, a platform, an illusion untamable? So is love beginning in ourselves then opening to others; investments, uncertainties sharply, softly hidden, in harsh plain view made of urges, absences sedimented longing forcing its path in our soul whispering in the everyday blissful turbulence?
