Love is an asshole. Far worse than Cupid -- that harmless little twat only shoots arrows that go skin layer deep. Love's approach is far more vicious, intrusive. Goes deeper. Straight through the bone and into the soul.
Love strikes you unawares, with a swift kick into a deep, warm pool of stupidity and blissful oblivion. It leaves you smiling at your office desk. Workload overflowing. Deadlines looming... unable to think, or care, about anything but your lover.
And it's cruel. Oh so cruel, as it cannot be measured. If there were a yardstick of love, you could at least shield yourself from some pain... knowing exactly where your lover sits on the scale.
But there isn't.
So you fret. You fret over the number of x's in each text message. Your lover's choice in words (was that "I love you" an accident? Did the casual sentence that followed, negate the sentence itself?).
You start to ponder the thin thread this all-consuming, beautifully torturous feeling hangs by.
You think about the "toos."
Are you too affectionate? Too needy? Too silly? Too crude? What if your lover hates your taste in music, is turned off by your tattoos, or is disgusted by your (undeniably awesome) biceps?
Love has you squirming in your seat thinking about the last touch, looking wistfully out of windows...sighing. You are tougher and smarter than this. How did these damn feelings take control of your normally head-driven, factual, badass approach to life?
As wonderful as love pretends to be, it's really not one for pleasantries or chit chat. It hunts you down, tears apart your ribs to expose your heart, hands your lover a dagger, and grins.
Love is an asshole, no doubt.
But you have to allow it. Stretch out your arms to make the tear a little easier. Trust that if your heart is torn to shreds, it will eventually come back together stronger.
It always does.