A Love Like Home

This is a monologue that I wrote for someone as part of a collaborative project that turned out not to be a collaborative project. Oh well, I’m putting it here now…

Will you just listen to me. I’m trying to be honest with you. Being honest, truly honest, isn’t an easy thing, so please just hear me out. Yes, I still love him. When I look at him I feel something. I feel a piece of what I felt when I was a kid, pining after the unattainable. But that isn’t a choice. I didn’t wake up this morning and decide to still love him. Emotions don’t work that way. You feel them, like you feel silk or leather or sandpaper. So yes, I love him. And I don’t want to lie to you and say it’s nothing, because it isn’t. It’s… heavy. But that’s how my love for him has always felt; like a ton of bricks. But you know what? I don’t want to carry around a ton of bricks for the rest of my life. And I’ve loved other men too. And each one is different. I’ve known love at first sight, irrational and sudden. I’ve known love like joy, high on it all the time. And I’ve known love like chocolate, all craving. And maybe I don’t love you like that. I’m sorry if that’s not good enough for you… but the love I have for you is better than good. It doesn’t weigh you down or make you high, and you don’t crave it. It’s a love you don’t always feel, but that’s because it’s always there. It makes you happy without even realizing it, without even trying. And when it’s gone, you feel alone. It’s the best kind of love a person can find. I love you like home.