I think it’s great for two people to be together.
That is a good number.
I think, that to keep it alive though, you can’t spend every day together because it wears out the magic…
Love means nothing to me if it’s not fortified with fierce, painful longing, brief explosive instances of furious passion and intimacy and then a sad parting for a time.
In that way, you can give your life to it and still have a life of your own.
I think some couples spend too much time together.
They flatten out the potential for experience by constant closeness.
Passion builds over time like steam.
Let it rage until it’s exhausted and then leave it alone to let it build up again.
Why can’t love be insane and distorted?
How can it be vital if it has the same threshold as normal day-to-day experience?
Why can’t you write burning letters and let your nocturnal self smoulder with desire for one who is not there?
Why not let the days before you see him/her be excruciating and ferment in your mind so on the day you go to the airport to pick him/her up, you’re nearly sick with anticipation?
And then when desire shows the first sign of contentment, throw it back in its cage and let it slowly build itself back into a state of starved fury.
Then when you are together, it all matters.
So that when you look into his/her eyes, you lose your balance, so that when he/she touches you, it feels like you have never been touched before.
When he/she says your name, you think it was he/she who named you.
When he/she has gone, you bury your face in the pillow to smell his/her hair and you lie awake at night remembering your face in his/her neck, him/her breathing and the amazing smell of his/her skin.
Your eyes go wet because you want and miss him/her so bad and so much…
Now that is worth the miles and the time.
That matches the inferno of life.
Otherwise you poison each other with your presence day after day as you drag each other through the inevitable mundane aspects of your lives.
That is the slow death that I see slapped on faces everywhere I go.
It’s part of the world’s sadness that’s more empty than cold, poorly lit rooms in cities of the American night.
by H. Rollins