All we know of love is the aftermath, the wreckage.
We can’t look at a beautiful stranger without thinking
of them as another storm, another person with the power
to wreck us.
When we look in the mirror, we see the raw
places where they could paint us with scars.
When we take their hand, we believe we are
willingly strapping ourselves to a hurricane.
Maybe this will all be a great tragedy:
palm trees bent in the wind, roofs blown off houses,
and stars shot down from the sky.
But we keep trying for the chance that this person
will be the one who stays even after everything
else is destroyed, and they will sit with us in the dark
and show us how to rebuild.
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