I have never fallen in love. I'm still young and naive and more ignorant than I might ever understand, but I don't think it's going to happen. I don't fall in love with people, but instead words and things they do. I don't love him, but I love the way he ran his fingers through his hair, the tiny little hairs on his neck standing up at the same time. I will never love her, but the way in which her dimples crept up behind her smile was astonishing. That's the kind of love I hope for, and if someone ever loves me, I think I'll know that they don't. I think I'll know that what they're in love with is the way my eyes crinkle when I laugh or how my feet turn inwards when I stand. That's how I want to be loved: for the individual things I do, but not for me as a whole. Is that wrong? Maybe. Maybe we're supposed to love fully or not at all, and perhaps we're supposed to dance in the rain instead of writing about it, but I don't see the problem with doing both, simultaneously. In fact, I hope the water splashes on my paper and I hope my heart crumples up as I write it, because that's what I'm in love with: words. I will always have a passion for reading and a fascination with the curves on the letter g, a simple arrangement of lines I may spend my life loving. That, I can guarantee, but human love is different. Human love is temporary, and so I will stick with the letter g, and it will be glorious.
