The hardest part of loving someone is that love isn’t always enough. There has to be respect, mutual care, true tenderness. There has to be, contrary to my preference, a bit of compromise. There has to be health. And balance.
The hardest part about loving someone is that sometimes you can’t be with them. You’ve got to learn to love from a distance. Let bygones be bygones. Let boundaries keep space warm and cuddly. If they wish to enter there must be trust.
The hardest part is knowing, often, the object of one’s love could be on the second moon of Jupiter and you’re still here on earth loving them.
But you don’t have a rocket ship. No jump drive. No slip space travel. You’ve got to stay put, learning how to generate love in your own heart.
And if on a cold fuzzy day you receive a transmission from them, and it makes your heart burst and your shoes jump, you’ll have to accept it. This is the hardest part. Maybe in time they’ll complete the Jupiter mission. They’ll return. But you will be long gone.
After all, you have a life too. And there is no time to wait in cultivating it.
I saw you pass over the moon yesterday. I was fishing for water lockets, old mementos in the pond. I looked up to see you dazzling. I wanted to reach out. I miss you. I miss something about you. I’m not sure what it is. If in your absence I’ve crafted a mighty tale of your essence. I’ve learned to love. It’s soft but it’s got edges. The edges keep me safe. They keep the junk stuff out. What’s it like to love on the moons of Jupiter? Does the heart still beat in regular rhythms? Do you find it hard like me? Do you wish there was a better way? I do.
The hardest part about loving you, Dear Jupiter, is that we can never go back. We can only go forward. I will not go back to playing in the shadows. To crawling on the ground searching for old relics. I’m on my feet now. I’ve got firm footing now. I cannot lose it.
I love you, Dear Jupiter. But sometimes that’s the easy part. The hard part is a whole other story.