Like a Sore Thumb

Maybe love means being someone’s accident.  Maybe love is something you trip over and fall into, scrape your knee against, stub your toe on.  You don’t mean to fall into it but it happens—you’re clumsy like that.  Or maybe love is like the weeds that spring up between the cracks in the pavement.  Maybe it grows in between broken things.  Maybe you’d have to be crazy or religious to call love something that is meant to be.  Because then you’d have to believe that everything from car accidents to plane crashes to that scar on your elbow from the time you fell off your bike are all meant to be.  But maybe it’s better to be crazy or to pray to god, otherwise you have to believe that you have some control over it all, that you could walk more carefully, that you could be more mindful of where you’re going, lest you end up tripping over that weed that grows stubbornly in between the broken pavement and getting hurt.