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My love is. There is no need for attribution. My love is easy. My love is easy. It is not complicated but complex. Complex in access to life and to you. Understanding. In accepting. In entrustment. In the confidence. And yet it is simple and easy.

My love is understanding. If you tell me and in telling yourself. If you are silent and in silence yourself. You are. With me. Then I accept you in your sharing, in telling and in silence. Serious or cheerful. Dreamy or realistic. But always simply as an understanding in togetherness.

My love is acceptance. When you come to me, I will take your hand and invite you to be there with everything you carry around with you. Good and bad. Bright and dark. Tears and laughter. Confusion and disentanglement. Unprocessed and processed. But always simply as an acceptance in togetherness.

My love is entrustment. If you are with me and you open, then it is probably kept with me. Whatever you dare to give me of yours, stay with me, in me, with the confidence that I will keep you in it and keep it. The injuries and the healings. The betrayal and the loyalty. Everything you have experienced and experience, on the way to me. But always simply as an entrustment in togetherness.

My love is itself. It needs no confirmation and no answer, because it is in itself and carries itself. She is not dependent on hollow promises and empty phrases. Do not promise yourself, because you have already misspoken yourself. It is because it satisfies itself and unfolds the strength of life.

Without boasting to prove to the outside or inside. It does not require you, because then it would be no love, but at best narcissism. It does not demand, because it is everything, in itself. She does not need it, nor does it have the control and the streaking out on every occasion, or demanding that you constantly prove to me. Control, not only about what you do, in every moment of the day, but also about your thoughts and dreams and ideas, as I ask, and you should do it from yourself, full of joy and pleasure, that you think of nothing but thinking, dreaming, making known to you and confirming it, by constantly telling me that there is no world for you but me, that you declare me to be the center of your world, indeed your universe, and there is nothing next to me. I just want to be no more and no less than the air you breathe. And if you forget for a second, then you have to carry it. I watch you and punish every offense. In all my pettiness and self-centeredness and self-love and egocentricity. Then that’s not love, but capture, take possession, imprisonment. I put you in chains and suppress any statement that is not related to me. Expect me to put me on a pedestal to adore me. Woe, if you do not. Woe, if I do not know about everything you do or fail to do, what you think or plan. This is, even if it is called love, a confession of my need, without self-esteem or responsibility.

Love is where I can say my love is without your answer. It is itself. It does not need control, not self-presentation, because it knows about itself without having to be confirmed. It is independent and free, even from you. She accompanies you, in the distance, in the nearness, gives you a place of arrival and of staying, but also of return and departure. It does not need, draws from the fullness of itself, because she feeds the ever-pulsing life. It is wide and all encompassing, so that your ideas and dreams, your thoughts and your fantasies of everything and everyone find their place. So that I can let you go, into an indeterminacy, even in a life that is yours. And it should be.

My love is.

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