Love is many things. It is the greening of the trees in spring and the fiery autumnal blaze. It is the sharp tang of coffee in the morning and the melting sweetness of apples. The smell of cut grass, the sweep of the breeze across a cheek. The fall of thick hair that swishes, the sunlight sparkling on clean glass. Love is what we make it, it is in every breath and every action. If we can walk with love then our hearts will be resiliant and strong.
When I refer to love I am not talking about possession, I am talking about universal and unconditional regard. I am, in fact, telling the world that the object of my praise is lovely. Consider yourself blessed to have been loved and seen and welcomed as you are, to have been lovely in my eyes, for that is great praise.
Yet, beware. Tread carefully, for this is no trivial matter, it is my heart that you tread upon. It is a fragile thing made of glass and can be flawed irreparably by thoughtless pressure. I have held the broken pieces in my hands and yet they have mended and come together again after much pain and sorrow. Forever more shall I avoid such sorrow and pain, that sucks the breath from me and sucks the life from my eyes.
You were not right, you did not hear what I had to say. You never hurt me apart from then. The pain that you felt was not of my making but your own. It was your grief and you needed to grieve and I always understood that.