Love is patient and kind.*
*Except for when it’s not.
Sometimes love is a child waiting in the doctor’s office, fidgety and antsy.
Sometimes it’s mean, knowing all of your weaknesses and using them against you.
Love is not jealous or boastful or proud or rude.*
*But lovers can be amazingly, painfully human.
They can ravage your self-esteem with careless comments and hurtful disinterest.
They can make you feel as if you are the sun, both the bringer of light and the cause of sunburnt skin from your overwhelming intensity.
It does not demand its own way.*
*Instead, it is predictable in its requests.
To share your heart, to give of your time, to pour your tears to water love’s garden.
There is bittersweet simplicity in its requirements for growth.
It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged.*
*And maybe that’s not something to be glad of, because it’s far too easy to allow yourself to be used when you forget and forgive and forget again.
It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out.*
*But sometimes, the truth hurts.
The truth means accepting the need to leave, to be alone but safe.
The truth means allowing yourself to release your lover before the flames die down, because passion can burn you alive if you aren’t careful.
Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.*
*And this is why it hurts so much, so often.
Because you can love a man and watch him morph into a stranger, yet still love his memory as it fades.
You can love a woman and know her fingers will never caress your skin, yet still love the sound of her laughter.
Love can leave you aching for the never-agains and could-have-beens.