Remember “Love is…”? It was a one-panel daily comic, and the caption defined love in what could charitably be called, prosaic terms

Love is…holding him close at night. Love is…soothing away her worries. Love is…everything, and forever. 

I don’t claim to know what love is but I can tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t everything. And it isn’t forever, any more than life is everything or forever. 

You go to school and you learn a language, long division, how a bill becomes a law. No one teaches you about love. 

No one teaches you about feelings, except to keep them to yourself. Deep down, where they grow like white mushrooms

Life, says Forrest Gump, is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. 

Maybe. Sometimes you know exactly what you’re going to get. You know and you take it anyway, because you believe in love and love never fails

Love fails alright. When you ought to leave but you don’t. When it’s fear. But you call it sacrifice instead. 

Ask the girl molested by her father if love never fails. Or ask the man who molests his daughter if he loves her. He will tell you that he does, and the woman who throws her newborn in the river. She answers, Yes, of course. 

You will say romantic love is different. Or you will say, that isn’t love, meaning, not an act of love

But love is love; sometimes love fails. 

Love is not a weapon and the heart is not a soldier, and you can’t always see what's growing in the dark. 

When no one teaches us about feelings, no one teaches us about love—no one should be surprised by mushroom clouds.

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