I love a life where I step through town on a sunny afternoon reminiscing about this morning — driving down mountain from new lover’s home where he made dinner then breakfast, where we slept only a few hours for talking-laughing-touching so far keeps taking precedence, where he offered pleasure during a right song for our blooming connection after which trauma response made me sob and though we still only know each other this well, he held perfect space for me. Where tonight many friends will dine at the restaurant I’ll float through for final hurrah before multi-month closure and the energy everywhere’s palpable, everyone knows it’ll be a party. Nolan’ll be there too, he’ll go out dancing later too, earlier listened to me share uncertainly about meaningful sex with someone else and he, too, sat in connected kindness. I love a life where I woke with a different lover recently, enjoyed coffee with him and our friend and later tea with an old beau who needs support over his torn love and despite my twinges, despite looking at him equaling achey remembrance, I felt happy to give it. A life where my family’s mostly healthy and the kids are old but young, where I’m able to receive so much beauty and as I keep telling anyone who’ll hear it, I really feel on that growth edge of finally rewiring my brain. Where at this point in this life, I’ve gained far more than I’ve lost. Where hope and positivity are my daily working-towards cause they generally don’t fail, keep demonstrating what belief in them offers. Where our small town’s the playground we each skip through, where there’s so much opportunity and joy and yes, heartbreak, where I’ve thought or said or heard or sang the word love 200 times the past day and each time felt so damn right.