“Clever people, people who are cunning, do not know what love is because their minds are so sharp, because they are so clever, because they are so superficial—which means to be on the surface—and love is not a thing that exists on the surface.”
– Jiddu Krishnamurti, from On Love and Loneliness
Life is not a thesis paper, and I am not your transitional phrase. Love, then, should not be sifted through with spell check, or a thesaurus. It instead tends towards unnerving and idiotic, the embarrassing and the flawed. It is bloated bellies, morning breath, and crusty eyes. It is two people in a mostly hideous light, reveling in rare moments that seem perfect. But it isn’t founded on that “perfection,” or choreographed days worthy of a leather bound book.
If you strive for that, I will resist you. I won’t fall for that which you constantly put on—those concepts you dress up in that barely fit inside your brain. That phony can be found elsewhere, in rooms without beds or floors strewn with sweaty clothes. I won’t applaud all your words dripping with wit—I will run. That, or doze off quickly at the table.
Your shrewd vocabulary will not make my panties vanish, or my hands locate the small part of your back. Those swollen syllables will keep my legs crossed tight, cause me to pick at my nails whenever you’re around, searching for vulnerability in my cuticles because you’re too afraid to give a little up.
And while you put on this show, I will entertain the sight of other couples, being dumb together and loving in a way that logic won’t explain. Your empty sentences, which might sound better in a notebook never read, will elude me as I daydream of men not bent on endless simulation. Those who aren’t fully façade—whose lives aren’t an endless sex scene with the lights off.