I love you, and it isn’t tribal, romantic, dispassionate, or good-natured. My feelings for you might be best likened to literary loves. I love you like I might love a favourite book. There is not only one book for me, and books are many things but not everything. I love thee, book, and think you perfect, sound, good – I am glad you are you and not something else. I may not think the same on page 6, I do wish pages 203 to 280 weren’t so tough, you make me cry at 10, 80 and 105, but I love the propositions you make and am blessedly happy to be in the company of such thinking when we are. I am angered and hold you to a higher standard. I wish there were more of you. I am petty about your mentions. We are in continual dialogue, at odds and in assent, different days, different turns, in my head. With feeling I compose retorts and appreciation unsent. I love you fiercely, as one loves a fucking good book that moves the horizon out further. You are thought bubbles on a digital page behind a glass cover. But for my imagination you would not exist as you do, a thoughtful stranger, angered and loving me back between rows of unintelligible gestures we call projects.
I wish our English conception of love were more myriad and textured. I wish for more loves.
Qualifying love as filial, friendly, platonic, passionate, obsessive, loyal or deep – I haven’t found enough loves for my loves. I don’t want to modify or qualify. Let there be many loaves of love – each with a different family, each named for a different baker.