And then, lo and behold, you wrote to me. And I was calm and cold, frigid as a January morning. And you tried to explain yourself. Which was something. I can say "hi" to you in passing now, and feel awful that you seized up at Commons the other day. I remember puking from working out. And I remember it being worth it.
Maybe I want to forget, though. It would be easier if I didn't know you better than, well, anyone. I've not known you very long, but you told me everything. Everything you'd never told anyone else. You're the only other person I know who has admitted to having an eating disorder. And you're a guy. It's the last thing you should feel comfortable talking about.
But naked there in the bed, knowing that we could not make love, we bared our souls to one another for hours, speaking of everything unspoken, everything not allowed.
What is subversive about love? The fact that she screwed you over and you'd still take her back. The fact that he wrenched my heart out of my body, slept with five other girls, and then I took him back.
What is subversive about love is its magnitude. It completely pulls the wool over all of our senses. We lose our minds for a feeling that is illogical; that is chemical and animal, hormonal, that is not created by any choice.
