It started on a highway in rural Kentucky. We passed an adult superstore in the middle of a cornfield, the kind with a retro name like “The Jewel Box” or “Pure Romance,” I can’t remember which.
I have been that girl who made mistakes after mistakes, got myself humiliated, ashamed, heartbroken, and subsequently ruined my chances at happiness.
In Hawaii, I rode a horse with your name. I flinched each time the instructor said it.
You’ll never go hungry.
It can make a gal feel insecure to sit in the Love Train’s first car while her man rides caboose for a lengthy stretch, but it happens.
I want to hug you again, hug you into a puddle, hug you into a tear, hug you into a gravity missile, hug you into a biscuit, hug you into a pile of cake crumbs on the kitchen floor.
What if you peered into a fortune ball right now and saw with indisputable clarity that you were never going to meet the love of your life?
Everybody will question your taste and assume you have a hidden motive.
What if, in another universe, you didn’t meet them? You don’t know them and they don’t know you. You are alone or you are with someone else, and you are content. They do not exist to you. But neither does the pain in your chest.
As much as you want to know the definition, we want to be able to define it.