Photo by McKenzie
Nothing is lost when it comes to love. We get stuck in this perpetual cycle of passed looks, of that yearning for conversation, for words, for smiles, for anything. We become diary-writers and backyard poets, guitar-strummers and jitterbugs, all for the sake of four little letters - letters that we spell out in black ink and huge, looping letters, L-O-V-E. We want it written all over our bodies like tribal tattoos and battle scars. We become Yakuza gangsters, painting our history on our backs for all to see, for us to experience. My grandparents told me that they met while my grandmother was working as a waitress at a burger joint, that my grandfather ordered root beer after root beer and kept emptying every one that my grandma would bring him out the window of his convertible when she left just so that, when she brought him another, he could see her again. Love is funny like that. True love means being bashful and strange and completely unpredictable - it means ordering those thirty root beers just to see that one beautiful soul that you've wrapped your wings around, even if you have to empty every last one of them out the window.
Love, spectacular love, high-flying cotton candy silky-milky circus love, means setting all conventions on fire and throwing caution to the wind. Love makes us brave, it makes us unbelievable, and so we become those poets and musicians and artists and revolutionaries, all for the sake of four little letters. But in the end, when we find ourselves held tight in the arms of that one spectacular person, the root beers seem insignificant. The words, those letters, those are the only things that matter, and it's a beautiful thing to be able to say them with true conviction.
I love you, we say. Root beer and all.