tell me about love

I'm writing a letter to a friend, 

answering her question: 

Tell me about love.

I'm telling her what 

Osho says about love. About its 

momentary quality--

that you can't put a 

contract on it. 

That it's more like a 

particular combination of 

paints 

that meld into a new color--
then eventually,

harden. 

At which point, it's time for a 

new moment. 

A new squeeze

from the tube. 

Sometimes you have lots of 

new moments 
with the same 

person for a really 

long time. 

Sometimes, 

you don't. 

But love doesn't care, 

either way. 

Love's not concerned with the 

who's or the 

how long's. 

It only cares that you melt.

And then the phone rings from 

South Dakota. 

And my heart sighs. And I 

smile deep--

A chance to become 

nothing, fading into each other, 

forgetting for a moment 

that we were ever made 

separate at all. 

Fifteen minutes of a 

rhythm so in-sync you'd 

think our hearts kept 

exactly the same pace. 

So I Google the question, 

"Do all human hearts keep 

exactly the same pace?" 

And I only get 

half-hearted answers 

that speak nothing of 

magic, nothing of 

togetherness, nothing of 
the implication 

that even as 

separate beings, 

distinguished matter, there's a 

song in us humans that 

is an us. 

It's how we were made. 
With metronomes of together 

in the center of our bodies--

An anthem that cries,

we are one. 

And I think, maybe, 

I could list a thousand ways 
that we're constantly 

trying to remember 

that song.