you don’t learn to love her. because learning to love her is like turning her into a routine you get used to, like you’ve been trying and you’ve just now seen parts of her you’ve never noticed before or maybe didn’t pay attention to. like the bad habit you’ve picked up and only just now become aware of the burning cigarette between your fingers, the money you’ve lost, the need for a fix, the jagged edges of your nails. no, it doesn’t work that way.
so, let me tell you what she’s like.
she’s always. not just coming to. not just on her way. you love her by means of night and day. she’s constant. you trace forever on her skin when she sleeps, the expanse giving you a universe that waits for you in it, just under your fingertips, and you want to explore the things that have inherently existed there. beautiful things, you’re sure. and so you don’t teach yourself to look for all the ways you can love her because you just do, like things that begin and end only to begin again— always the sunset, always the sunrise.