A Love Letter to Love (Cont'd)

I received a letter from a friend this week, one of a few relationships in my life maintained by epistolary correspondence. He signed off with the phrase, “Love finds us in the end, yeah?”

My dear Cory,

I want to believe that love finds us in the middle as well. Love finds us in the mess, in the muddy spring days, rainy nights, 3am departures as my door swings shut with the heartbreaking sound of finality. Love finds us everywhere, all at once, all the time (if we are open), and it is no less valid if it ends.

Rather, love is energy, and energy shifts. Knowing that is my only saving grace to accept dissolution without blowing up the world. My hands found piano keys when I got off my flight—the first time in twelve years. I can no longer read bass clef but the opening notes to “River Flows In You” pour out if I close my eyes. Muscle memory, triggered by being with someone who makes you want to make art.

My latest brush with loving emerged unexpectedly, so much unknown. I glance back to find a trail of bread crumbs, fairy lights outlining just how many times I wanted him beyond the bounds of any promise or structure, save the ones grown from impulse. A foundation built on unfinished desire, my body a collection of words assembled into poetry with touch.

I’m no poet. I write children’s stories, because I love how children are unfinished and ongoing, as we are. As love is. Children teeter on cusps where portals are made: one life carrying on with all its fixed labels and others—interrupted. Love is an interruption. Everything expands. Myself, becoming more with each night that grasps at the blooming hours of a coming day. Beautiful and transient and real.

All my best,

Linh