and it's a beautiful day

He says that he believes a person can love someone

and still be able to murder that person.

I say, No, that’s not love. That’s attachment.

Michael says, No, that’s love. You can love someone, then come to a day

when you’re forced to think “it’s him or me”

think “me” and kill him.

I say, Then it’s not love anymore.

Michael says, It was love up to then though.

I say, Maybe we mean different things by the same word.

Michael says, Humans are complicated: love can exist even in the

murderous heart.

I say that what he might mean by love is desire.

Love is not a feeling, I say. And Michael says, Then what is it?

We’re walking along West 16th Street—a clear unclouded night—and I hear my voice

repeating what I used to say to my husband: Love is action, I used to say

to him.

Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to look at

someone you want to eat and not eat them.

Janis Joplin says, take another little piece of my heart now baby.

Meister Eckhardt says that as long as we love images we are doomed to

live in purgatory.

Michael and I stand on the corner of 6th Avenue saying goodnight.

I can’t drink enough of the tangerine spritzer I’ve just bought—

again and again I bring the cold can to my mouth and suck the stuff from

the hole the flip top made.

What are you doing tomorrow? Michael says.

But what I think he’s saying is “You are too strict. You are

a nun.”

Then I think, Do I love Michael enough to allow him to think these things

of me even if he’s not thinking them?

Above Manhattan, the moon wanes, and the sky turns clearer and colder.

Although the days, after the solstice, have started to lengthen,

Next time, take a fucking hint.

“My father couldn’t warm my frozen hands.” ― Tahereh Mafi