Wednesday, 4 February 2015

On Love

I'm not sure what love is.

I've never been sure, but I think it's hearing her say "You're an asshole", while her smile betrays the words just uttered.
It's a small child wearing a vest, shirt and jumper; simply because its mother is cold.

I think love is having two apples. A crisp, juicy one and a soft, bruised one. From that, it's offering the better to her.
It's sharing a clementine. A segment for you, two for her.

It's looking at her, like that. With those eyes and that smile.

Love, I believe, is the gentle hand that reaches for you at three in the morning after you've gotten up to use the bathroom.

The message you receive when you arrive ten minutes later than usual, "Are you home and safe?"

I trust it to be everything that goes unsaid. It's incandescent and organic. Mesmerising.
Yours. Mine. Ours. To share.
A yearning for what was and what will be.

I'm not sure what love is, but it just might be magic.

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