What we talk about when we don’t talk about love.

We talk about words. About how they form stories from memories: of places, and faces, and feelings. We talk about warmth–as we go about our days and being reminded constantly by each other’s presence, or absence, knowing that the longing is mutual. We talk about poems, and how random words can actually make up something so beautiful–the way random encounters with random strangers by the beach sometimes do. We talk about haikus and Kerouac, of the feeling of being here and there, of being nowhere and everywhere–as the idea of us in each other’s arms fills the air.

Well, here I am
2 PM
what day is it?

No telegram today
only more leaves
fell.

Drunk as a hoot owl, 
writing letters 
by thunderstorm.*

We talk about fixing coffee and tea, about breakfast in bed and the joy of preparing meals for dinner time. We talk about traveling around the world and staying at home for two weeks in a row when the Internet is down–about how both possibilities seems fascinating simply because we are together. We talk about material gains and spiritual paths, about the books we are writing and the projects we are working on; about business ideas and dead musicians, about dark humor and classic movies, about dogs and cats and rain and thunderstorms. We talk about being stuck in a traffic jam for 2 hours, about sea-glass and cartoon characters, about disrupting the market and financing options, and about how wonderful we feel in each other’s embrace.

We talk about history and ancient temples. About a family island that has been passed down from generation to generation for over 400 years. We talk about the idea of something that remains constant for so long, about how amazing and romantic it is, and questioning whether the things we hold of importance today will still be around in many years to come–and that we certainly hope so**.

We talk about cities and their different vibes. About how some have consistent flows of interaction–where we will always be in regular contact with people and energy, while the rest are filled with dead zones. About how, similar to life, sometimes it’s best not to prepare too much and too far ahead, and just jump in when we get there**. We talk about flowers and their different appearance. About how some are trying so hard with beautiful shapes and colors and complicated configurations of petals, while the rest are just there: as plain and honest as flowers could, swaying happily as the wind caresses their simple florets; couldn’t care less about trying to impress.

We talk about dreams and fears; the things that make us laugh and the things that make us cry. We talk about the way we hurt–about how pain is a true sensation of life: one we can’t hide from if we really want to grow and understand all that life has to offer us.** We talk about happiness; about following our bliss in the midst of turmoils and uncertainties; about the way we find each other as we’re manifesting our hearts’ desires. We talk about how the timing may not be ideal, but somehow perfect in every way–as we have hurt enough to mature, and have loved enough to see each other in a childlike manner: with a sense of wonder, of being amazed and joyful when it comes to those everyday little things we see in each other.

And we talk about life. About how life is good when the other is in it–in any form: be it a song, a word, a picture, or best of all, in a touch.**

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*) from Jack Kerouac’s American Haiku
**) from M’s letters.

Leave your traces here. I want to hear :)

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