I stare down this mid- life restlessness, this feeling that it isn’t enough, that I am bursting with love that I can’t seem to find a home for and think of those clichés about tending one’s own garden, know somehow I am tending mine wrong, and the love that I give is parceled up, “friend,” “lover,” as if our hearts are glass, “love isn’t nice, we are meant to break our hearts and love the wrong people”, and I swoon every time, mostly encounter indifference, and that hurts, I try not to harden, want to look badass but not actually be that way, maybe love is a tap and I should turn mine on and let anyone take from it what he wants, more or less, and I will drink from his, whatever he shares, and not worry, not want so badly to be out in the snow with Nicholas Cage having him say, “I love you, and I want you to come inside and get in my bed”


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