Why must it always be about love? That kind of love which needs a coating of sugar sweet syllables, uttered in a fumbling combination of flustered words, meant to please and pacify and excite but not too much, never too much? Why must it always be about love, and lovers or whether I pick one over the other, as if it makes a difference, to me, to anybody? Why can’t a storm remind me of other storms, that I have watched from the holes in my walls, afraid that it would touch me, that the white bitter light would bite me, but never did? Why does it always have to about storms anyway? Why can’t it be about a sun-warmed day dripping salt-sleek water down the hollow of my throat and hands kissing hands in jest, after walks around dead white trees that live on in our desire to ‘save’, to ‘heal’, things that would much rather be left alone? Why does it have to be about a kind of love that is red and pink and that begins in the heart and sticks in the throat and creates lovers that last for a century only? Why can’t we remember the other form of love when we look at the sky through the dust-oiled squares of glass window that peer down protectively as the sun reasserts its control over the blue? Why can’t I think of the soft brown of your hair that I love but wouldn’t serenade, that I would kiss but never paint because I can’t. And even if I could I would not because why wouldn’t I keep it in my eyes, and out there for the world to see? I don’t believe in that love which takes a year to grow in measured counted steps and needs A lover, A loved. I love you, but I am not your lover. I love you from all directions, from all around you and when you are not there, I cannot promise that I will not love the space you leave behind because my love will not stop because my internet has stopped working. I will love you 27 years later and I will remember each day with you, but not as a rose coloured heat haze of love that was meant to be romantic like in the books. I will remember the stern oranges of the air all around us, and I will remember the brown of her skin and the white of his, the pink of the flowers that slapped my head while you laughed and the green of the grass that we toyed with idly. I will not paint it all one colour just because I love you. I will not be yours. Nor will I be hers. But I will love you, even without a lifetime of words written, or storms remembered, in your name.