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What shall I say of love? That it dies a thousand ways?
That, like the orange sun, we all know it sets each day–
Yet we would strap it to scaffolding to keep it hung?

Love is a word for only one emotion, (and that right glaring)
which cannot be trapped–To love love
you look straight into it, so you become blind.
Truly we are only allowed to describe it, to know it obliquely–
not to keep a fix on love or else we go insane.
There is a fascination with this thing so bright–
without it, we scramble to live.

And what of its shyer cousin? I am keen on fondness.
The delicate moon we have every night to stare into for hours–
We have a conversation with fondness the whole month long
and watch it pass, contentedly, for we know it will.
We are not jealous of its comings and goings;
while it dips below the earth each day, it will return.
The gentle, playful tug of fondness is steadfast.

Love, though, shines so bright, it is an action that happens to you.
You are stricken. You swell to bursting. Love burns the skin.
It’s hard to recover from such aggression as love…

Yet fondness cools, and regards you, too. You matter to it.
It cares for you like a compassionate nurse to your fever.
It metes out water to your parched lips. You are revived by its
soft touch after love has had its way and thrown you back.

No, I don’t take fondness for granted simply because it is not as bold.
It lights my way as assuredly as love, if I soften and let my senses shift.
In fondness there is rest as well as joy between eruptions.
It gives back more than it requires of me.

As the moon borrows sunlight to pronounce its presence,
I have learned to refract and diffuse, to reflect…
In essence, I have become fond of love.

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