Here’s what I know about love.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is pain. Love is suffering. Love is knocking on the door in the pouring rain, sobbing, and hoping against hope that the arms on the other side will enfold you and hold you close and tell you everything is going to be okay. Love is hurt. Love is betrayal. Love is calling and asking ‘where’s the money?’, knowing full well where it’s up his nose and down the drain and still hoping it’s not true anyway. Love is waiting. Waiting for them to call, waiting for them to show up. Waiting for them to tell the truth. Waiting for them to give to you what they have promised, waiting beyond all possible reasonable hope, waiting, waiting, waiting because what else is there to do.