delicate. ethereal.

And could you spare some love for yourself? You have so much. You send it on fiction and friends and fantasies. On lovers you haven’t met yet and people you have yet to become. You shower it on talented strangers and figments of fiction that have provided you comfort. You spend it on pets and pals and many wonderful and worthy recipients. But could you spend some of it on yourself? Have you fed everybody from your plate and left none for yourself? Or are you purposefully not taking the love you have left? Are you saving it for someone more worthy? Who deserves your love more than you do?

Sometimes love is not the tender hand of passion or the batting of a lover’s eyelashes. Sometimes it’s the bitching and moaning of your very best friends. Sometimes it’s not the rapturous embrace of carnality and connection in a partner’s bed. Sometimes its bickering with your buddies in the drive through about how they may absolutely not pay you back for the coffee. Sometimes it’s not yearning and longing and the pain of cupid’s arrows. Sometimes its losing your shit with your friends in a mostly empty grocery store. Sometimes it’s not the torture and ecstasy of devotion that can’t be spoken. Sometimes it’s shouting I love you and flipping someone off from across four lanes of traffic. Poets didn’t event love, nor should they define it, and just because nobody ever wrote about it doesn’t mean it isn’t good. 

You're allowed to romanticize life. Every little stir of your coffee, every sip of your tea. The sounds of leaves and snow crunching under your shoes, and the way your breath curls through the air when it's cold. Life is beautiful, never forget.