My love for you is water, and I am not sure that is good. It flows, it rushes, and it makes up most of what am I am and facilitates all of what I do. It has beauty. It can be destructive. It tastes like life and smells like death and sounds like an calm spring evening, falling to the ground. It looks and feels differently as the seasons change. There to quench, there to overwhelm, or to be a scenic backdrop for something else. Forgive me, love, as I’m steady in the cool, calm in the warmth, but when it gets cold, I’m sharp and hard. In heat I disappear into the air, only to fall back when the circumstances are favorable, and that’s not fair at all. All these failed efforts at climate control; you need me more lake than puddle, more river than stream, more faucet than leak when we’re tossed about that which we cannot control. All of these impurities, I left them on the bottom in my failed efforts pretend they were not there at all. I considered dredging them up to be more pure. I considered capping them with concrete to keep them safe. I want to show you perfection, I want to be perfection, as we conspire to make a mirage pretending we’re all better than we are. Alas. I own these flaws, and it’s high time I dissolved them into the rest of me in the name of sticking around better when it’s hot, staying fluid in the cold. It took me too long to understand that my love is useless distilled.

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