”[…] and love, like heaven, was always just around the corner. the more difficult it was to love the particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total. we were waiting, always, for the incarnation. that word, made flesh.

and sometimes it happened, for a time. that kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. you would look at the man one day and you would think, i loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done; and you would know too why your friends had been evasive about it, at the time. 

there is a good deal of comfort, now, in remembering this.

or sometimes, even when you were till loving, still falling, you’d wake up in the middle of the night, when the moonlight was coming through the window onto his sleeping face, making the shadows in the sockets of his eyes darker and more cavernous than in daytime, and you’d think, who knows what they do, on their own or with other men? who knows what they say are where they are likely to go? who can tell what they really are? under their daily-ness.

likely you would think at those times: what if he doesn’t love me?”

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