The science of loving you.

I am like fire and tar, burnt out and stuck to the pavement. I’m leftover and left out and everything in between.

But you see, there’s a strange culture here, a community, an entire ecosystem where the world thrives around me, and I wither away.

I was planted here, but my roots don’t grow. My face to the sun but not an inch to the left.

And all I can see are starbursts, the fourth of July remnants blinding out the edges of everything I once held dear.

But I still love you, you know. Even though I sit on one side of heaven, you on another. I still love you although your eyes aren’t blind and your roots are so deep not even Samson could pull you out.

I still love you, and I think often about the science behind it. How all the world can be different inside of another person’s heart. But when I look at you, face now nothing more than starburst, I still see the edges of what you were, and who I was.

And I suppose that’s all I need to see.

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