I have started to love how full of love I am. I love how brave I am, diving into love like the darkest ocean depths with life jacket or assurance of what lurks there. I love how full of warmth my love is, a fiery inferno that burns the average man. I love how this cup of love inside me overflows and leaves leftovers for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I love how I carry the sun in my chest and the moon in my lungs, so every time I move and breathe my magic is felt no matter what time of the day and night.
I always wanted someone that would meet me half way. Someone that would be willing just to bend their heart a little to fit the symmetry of mine. Someone that would accept the odd magical being that I am rather than trying to box it off, tame it and dilute it.
I thought I had too much love, it was a curse that I could lift. I thought I loved too hard, overwhelmingly so, a burden nobody wanted to carry. That is a myth I have dispelled.
The love I have is perfect. It’s full of light, imagination, fire, curiosity and comfort. I realised I didn’t have to change myself to attract a lover who feels good on the surface but can’t comprehend my love language. They also didn’t need to adapt who they were to love and be loved by me. You see our souls spoke an age old language all of their own. Many times I had dialled down the intensity of my love so I was lukewarm enough to allow someone to hold onto me; someone who can’t handle the woman I am.
There’s nothing hopeless about being romantic. I’m not hopeless at all. I was just a romantic who was yet to find her equal and until that love came along I kept the light of love alive for me as I am my first love, my own soul mate and I burn for me.
Romance