I have a way of mistaking attraction for compatibility, and mutual desire for destiny.
Possession can look like passion, and when you are wholly passionate in your self-expressions, the possessive grip of a man’s hands around the base of your neck as he pulls you in for a kiss ignites you in an indescribable way.
I make the mistake of revealing my vulnerabilities too soon, offering up the soft, often defenseless places of my being as pillows to be used by weary heads and broken hearts.
“Come, lay into me.”
I tend to expose the strings of my heart, which at times have been played by clumsy and inexperienced hands, similar to the way a child unapologetically slams sticky fingers against piano keys, beaming joyfully over the wailing sounds of discordant melodies.
When heartstrings are strummed with gentle fingers, the melodies can be mistaken for elegant arias, but really, they just be the Blues.
As I ponder these things, I reflect on the subtle ways love reveals itself. We often mistake it for something it’s not and overlook it. We expect it to waltz into our lives adorned in gold and silver rainments; purple robes gleaming with specks of diamond dust and sprinkled with remnants of shooting stars.
We expect it to be bursting with colors and sounds and light, announcing itself and at every turn, leaving a trail of rose petals behind it.
Love hides in quiet places, not wanting to be seen, yet needing its presence to be felt. It is dark; no, not dark in its nature, but dark in that it is composed of every color—not just the red of roses and beating hearts and cherry lips swelled with lustful delight.
No, love is not red. Love is every color.
© 2015 Tamara Kellam