Making love requires no thought. You move as the fronds of a palm tree move in the breeze. It is all instinct. All wonder. After making love there is nothing like making love, slowly, idly, like walking without a destination, or swimming in a warm sea. Making love defies explanation or exposition, description or clarification. Making love is one of those rare human exchanges in which the more you give,
Love hurts. Love is fragile. Love comes like a breath of magic, then departs leaving us feeling empty, alone, a paper cup blowing on the wind. Love is not a spaceship you construct and then fly off together into the stars. Love is a soap bubble that bursts in the air. Love is the first winter snowflake that falls into you palm, a mirage that glows in the sun and
On sleepless nights, I have often thought about the meaning of love and watched in the early hours as the night planes arrive in London carrying sleepless people, some in love, some lost, some thinking about the meaning of love. When you remove love from sex you enter a mansion with many rooms shaded in nuance and excess, an invitation to peel away all conventions and programming. A chance to explore
I remember my first love as if it were last night below the full moon with the sea slipping over the beach. The experience was overwhelming, painful, obsessive and I didn’t sleep for days.