It’s one of those things I keep lying to myself with. I refused to see it. I refused to understand it. I refused to believe it. But here I am, confessing it: I’m in love with love.
I love love. I love falling in love. I love feeling loved. I love waking up knowing there’s someone thinking of me. I love waking up knowing there’s someone I’m thinking of constantly. The joys, the sadness, the hurt, and the other wonders of love — I just love all of it.
While I’ve lost love, and possibly lost potential ones, I remain hopeful that I will meet someone one day. I remain hopeful that there’s someone out there for me and the right time has yet to arrive.
But I’m yearning for it. I miss it. I want it.
I long for all of it that love comes with. I want to feel it again. I want the endless fights over the smallest and the biggest of things. I miss having long talks over the phone that ends with one falling asleep. I miss having someone to hold on to when the scene in the movie scares me the crap out of me. I miss having someone to plan a weekend getaway with. I miss having hands to hold when I feel like my world’s falling apart.
I miss it. I miss all of it. I want it.
I miss having to take care of the person I love. I miss being that one person who’d try to understand him when the rest of the world don’t seem to. I miss being that one person he can always run to.
I want to feel that strong attraction that’s beyond lust again. I wanna feel that time-consuming, heartbreaking, mind-boggling attraction — the very kind where you just love so much it hurts when you think about the time you might lose it.
There’s something about love that gets me. I’m yearning for it. I miss it. I want it.
So here I am finally confessing that I love love — that I am in love with love; that I want to fall in love again — with hopes that maybe, one day, I will confess that I’m finally in love again.