love, that word...

Love for the sake of love.

L'amour pour l'amour.

Once, more than once, actually, I fell in love with a boy, who was nothing in the end, except a pure representation of love.

He looked like love. He smelled like love. All the five senses were covered.

Until they weren't.

And I was unsure why I was so keen on falling in love, with someone else, though, ostensibly, with love.

This was a realization I loved to make. And accuse others of. Especially friends that needed to dump their lovers. Or boys I didn't really like.

"You're not in love with me! You only want to be in love! I could be anyone!"

No one ever agreed to this on the spot. They would seem foolish if they did. Instead, they defended their position, as if to the death.

[Till death do you part.]

I never understood love that wasn't reciprocal.

Unrequited love seems impossible, unless one of the two suddenly falls out of love. Suddenly or gradually. Usually the latter then the former.

But, of course, what do I know? Unrequited love is what poetry is all about. Or at least pop music. But still, usually it's not unrequited, it's on the brink of discovery.

Sex dangling like the sword of Damocles, which it always does.

Dangles.

But love, that word...

Love is a whore, a word that gets passed around without as much as an afterthought. A word that is said only to be heard.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

I saw a father with his two children approach their apartment door. All of these facts are assumptions until the daughter stops and rings the buzzer. When I walk past I hear the intercom speak: "And?"

"And I love you."

"And?"

"I love you."

"And?"

The son approaches. "I love you!" He's enthusiastic.

"And?"

"And I love you," both her kids say in unison. I think the little boy is laughing.

"And Father?"

Exhausted. Tired of this game. Tired of this game three weeks ago. Carrying a sack of groceries. Annoyed that he is without keys. He speaks quickly, head hung low. "I love you."

They're buzzed in.

None of them are allowed inside this woman's house, within her chamber walls, unless they profess their love.

I'm not even sure she began this charade with an I-love-you herself.

Is this a sign of insecurity?

What is?

Writing?

L'art pour l'amour.