Love with every stranger, stranger the better

Luncheon of the Boating Party | Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1880-1881 | The Phillips Collection | Washington, DC, United States

I keep falling madly in love with people for just one night. At that moment, when I look into his eyes and he’s deep in the storm of being himself, he looks more real than ever before, and I love him.

Sometimes the feeling lingers the next morning, stuck between my dreams and my pillow. I wake up to a chilly, silent home except for the rattling of the air con and the echoes of his laughter, and I remember what it was like to love him. Alone, before my morning tea and my morning news, I remember how love felt at 1 am when I walked back home after a night out and an extra glass of wine I shouldn’t have had. I remember the wonder, and fear–what if they didn’t like me i made a fool out of myself they could tell i was nervous i’m such an idiot all the stupid things i said–and acceptance. The fantasy always fades away in time, and that’s alright. It’s a step back into a life wilted, interrupted.

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