I don’t think there’s something called too much love. There’s just love, and scoops and scoops of emotions melting all over it. They ruin the flavour. And they make us say things like ‘nothing kills love like too much of it’. Blah.
What kills it is a seething emotion of possessiveness, or insecurity, or ego. They blanket the love, and often choke it. Possessiveness is blanketed love. So is fear, and so is hatred.
Love is in itself enough. And love is by itself complete. It does not want to be smothered with any other emotions. It wants to float inside of you. It wants to radiate from within your heart. It wants to be received. It wants to be given. Without being wrapped in decorative words, nor tagged with other emotions.
Love doesn’t need a blanket. Love is in itself warm.