Home > Author > Don Mihsill
1 " I do not know if this is loveor what love isor if love's a thing, if it can beworn like an old coat, or feltlike harsh fabric on naked flesh, orif it is a sensation, like that first timethe brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill orthe climax of masturbation, orif love is an invention, and we allmanufacture our own versions -some bright, some dull, some marbled,but all with labels and stickersthat say: this is love.I do not know what love isor if I can say what I think love is,could be or should be. If we wereto ever sit on the marble floor,on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degreeDelhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk'sand I were to tell you that this is love,slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar.and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your lovingfor I don't know what love is or if it can be known.Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searchingfor what love means, we will sit outside -you and I -amidst the debris of our meanderings,our bent backs restingon the rusted iron railing,our skin pimpled, throats scratchedfrom prayers uttered to absent gods andwe would be in love and believe that love is this:love is all the spaces, non-events,the unspoken words and everythingin between the first second of thesethirty years to this. Love is this. "
― Don Mihsill
2 " I do not know what love isI do not know if this is loveor what love isor if love's a thing, if it can beworn like an old coat, or feltlike harsh fabric on naked flesh, orif it is a sensation, like that first timethe brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill orthe climax of masturbation, orif love is an invention, and we allmanufacture our own versions -some bright, some dull, some marbled,but all with labels and stickersthat say: this is love.I do not know what love isor if I can say what I think love is,could be or should be. If we wereto ever sit on the marble floor,on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degreeDelhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk'sand I were to tell you that this is love,slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar.and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your lovingfor I don't know what love is or if it can be known.Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searchingfor what love means, we will sit outside -you and I -amidst the debris of our meanderings,our bent backs restingon the rusted iron railing,our skin pimpled, throats scratchedfrom prayers uttered to absent gods andwe would be in love and believe that love is this:love is all the spaces, non-events,the unspoken words and everythingin between the first second of thesethirty years to this. Love is this. "
