Floating

Too Late

  I had a young friend ask me how to know if he was in love. Being an old bastard, I'm sure he expected a cynical response. But, in my experience, I knew love by the flavor and smells. When the taste of her kiss is all you can think about, that is lust, but when you miss the way she tries to cook and fails, that is love. When her perfume lingers on your jacket,m to remind you of last night, that is lust. When you can't sleep because the pillows don't smell like her, that's love. I've found love also lives in our lies. When you tell her she's the only girl you will ever think of again, that's lust. But when you lie and say you're not hungry because you can only afford one of those damned vegan rice bowls she won't shut up about... that's love. And I've found love also dwells within the body. You can touch her body and be in lust, but when you can't touch her face to stop her from crying and the world doesn't feel right, that's love. You see, love is only really reflected in its loss. You only know it was love if you don't become apathetic to its existence. So I told him simply this. Shut up kid. You don't want to know when it's love. Because then it's too late.