what it’s like to love when there’s no love available
you feel ready to love again, ready to share your life with someone. when you were with women you cared for, you were self-centred. you took them for granted - no, less than that - you didn’t even register them as part of you.
you’ve not lived with someone in a long time. years. more than a decade.
there’ve been a few weeks here and there, experiments. they felt your hesitation, experienced your selfishness - the way you opened your home without opening it.
míriam came to stay the first time. you didn’t prepare. left remnants of past lives scattered around. failed to clear out a drawer.
you thought you were serious. she saw first that you weren’t all in. one foot out the door - sometimes literally, as you scoffed the tapas she made and offered a kiss more reminder than desire, holding the screen door open on your way back to work.
giving your space on the sofa wasn’t enough - you did this with every woman. an empty gesture, like the space in your heart. empty for them, empty for you.
sometime in the last month, the emptiness faded.
now your heart is filling to bursting. you write daily, meditate, play with the cat, slow down - you love yourself.
so what’s it like to be ready to share your life, in a village where there’s no one to share it with?
it’s sweet. you listen to love songs, nurture non-romantic relationships, revisit memories of old flames.
you’re not despairing. even heartache from lyrics and regrets feels like passion. you’re not frantically seeking to fill that empty sofa, or your heart.
your heart’s full already. you know someone will share it, as you sit side-by-side on the sofa - you on your side.