I forget what it feels like to be in love and I want so badly to be reminded.

I have a vague recollection of yearning; so much want and need and a heightened awareness of my being. Like a homunculus come to life – all lips and hands and overly sensitive private parts.

And I want that again.

I want more than a casual crush on a coworker who smells like herbal outdoors and cracks Dilbert jokes by the water cooler.

I want more than a lustful fling who’s all touch and no talk and leaves me breathless but confused.

I want more than a convenient companion – someone you fool yourself into believing you’re in love with just because it would be so easy.

No, I want that can’t-talk, can’t-breathe, forget-how-to-act-like-a-normal-human-being kind of all encompassing love. Thanks Disney for making me believe that exists. Can I just go to sleep for a decade or two until some hot guy who owns the kingdom wakes me up with a kiss?

When my parents interact, I see something rare. I see love wrapped up in friendship with a dash of passion. They found each other young and grew together and somehow, against all odds, made it last. If they could do it over again, I know they’d tread the same path, retracing their steps. Because they are part of the lucky few who found earth-shattering love and guard it, cherish it, and appreciate it every day.

I’m exhausted by my own ambivalence.

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