To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.
― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
When someone asks you to kiss them,
ask them first if their kiss would make
your nights sleepless and scatter stars
upon your lips. Tell them to write you
poetry first and that you’d kiss them
given the condition that their poem
would touch the untouchable part
of the human soul. If they argue with
you, tell them: it’s either you take me
or you leave me. No in-betweens. And
when they finally shut their mouth, slowly
whisper this: You cannot go to the park
and throw your heart at random people
and expect them to throw theirs in return.
Then slowly walk backwards as you look
them in the eye. Search for the answer,
that often than not is overshadowed
by the very questions you just threw at them.
Then turn your back,
and leave them. Chin
up, chest out.
Your neck. I want to kiss it.
They hurt you. You hurt ‘em back. Or maybe it is the other way around. Whatever. Someday you might find a way to forgive each other. But it won’t be like it used to ‘cause that pain never really goes away.