We keep waiting for it to show up, like love is something that arrives on our doorstep — like it’s something outside of us that someone else has to give. We keep padding softly in bare feet over to that heavy door and opening it with that weight in our hearts and so much hope in our eyes only to return empty-handed and heavier that we’ve ever felt before. They say love is a gift, but we keep opening up empty boxes because they had a certain shine to them — pretty, empty boxes that leave us with a sinking feeling in the pit of our stomachs because we spent so much time unwrapping them that we didn’t trouble to realize they were weightless, without substance.
A part of your everyday life.
