We’re afraid. We’re afraid of the exquisite pain of loving our beloved fully. If we allowed ourselves to stay open after the initial rush of hormones and neurotransmitters subsided… we would have to break. Our hearts would break to hold the love for another who becomes our family, our every day life, our “other half”… One who gives us gifts like children, experiences, opportunities to grow. To see the perfection and beauty in it all might be so bright that our eyes would burn, we’re afraid. So we pick and poke one another instead. We seek blame, fault, reasons for our tiredness or annoyance, proof of transgression, comparison… all things less than love that are easier on the eyes and the heart. We save the great pain for the end. We can cry then and everyone will understand. How would we explain crying every day over the sight of his smile, or the sound of her laugh, or over dinner?