Love, oh.

Love. Oh, how odd and uncomfortable?

I have had few- I think. Who is the judge, the purveyor of what constitutes such a fickle thing?

Was love meeting by chance, and sharing a beer in a broken down basement suite?

Was love meeting online, flickering and fiddling with the torrent of wishing for a fairytale but confined to modernity?

I am not sure of True Love nor her mistress Fate. I believe my grandparents met by perfect chance, and it was fated they would create daughters that allow me to write now, with such sacrifice I carry like a soldier born and bred for nobility.

Odd, fickle, unsure.

If you are familiar with my writing, you will know I am a connoisseur of the dark. I am macabre, through to my very withering bones.

But something I thought long deceased, withers and worms in my chest for this one special soul. Someone I had known of and had hated for her promiscuity when we were both teenagers, now, a soft and sincere adult baring the wounds people like me had inflicted.

And it feels fateful. Someone as sane as I, someone as lost and loving perfectly twisted beneath a dark gaze and tinkling laugh.

It feels too much like a dream. But where the terror of having a great beast yanking me to reality used to lay, is a sleeping sound lamb.

Perhaps love at first sight exists. Perhaps fate and true love and chance all are one thing we find within the person we know are curated for us. Executed at the finely timed moment between chaos and destruction.

Oh, love.