Mia amo, mia koro

When you think of love, you think of bumping into that just right stranger, eyes connecting with a spark, and all else seems to be just background noise. You think of kissing their lips, running tapered fingers through fluffy hair, and getting lost in emotional eyes.

When you think of love, you think of stopping dead in your spot, watching as they sip coffee, lost in a book. You think of their beauty, of how the sun flickers through their hair. You think of offering another coffee, smiling as they accept. You think of taking a walk with them, smiling as they ramble on what they were reading. You think of how their voice leave a rumbling warmth in your chest.

When you think of love, you think of a woman donning a white dress, pristine, angelic, royal like, walking in steady yet nervous steps towards you. You think of the flower in her hands, a mixture of roses, baby’s breath and her favorites. You think of how her soft perfume would stain your pillows, getting lost in the aroma when she leaves the bed. You think about her standing before you, her face, the one you memorized deep in your heart, covered and shielded by a strip of tule and lace. And then you think about how her lips, lined with pink gloss, and how they gently stain yours when your bond is finalized.

But...

To me, at least to just me, I think of love as not the things surrounding the moments. I see love as something to be cherished.

Love is something that you feel. Its the warmth that flows from your chest, over your lungs and down to you belly. It is the heat that grows as you lay your head on your chosen’s chest, smiling and being soothed by the steady beat of their heart.

Love is smiling as you both share passionate intimacy, your pleasures shared and entwined, your blushing cried in unison with the connection of flesh. Love is smiling as that intimate moment plants a seedling of proof.

And yet, love can hurt.

Love can flicker away as that seedling withers and vanishes. Love is the feeling of despair shared between you, its the anger and grief that forces you to shun your partner, blaming yourself for the loss of your seedling. Love is sitting on your bed, sobbing at the life that never bloomed.

Love is watching your beloved spiral and fight, angry at the world. Love is screaming at one another, angry, so very angry. It is watching your wife, your husband, walk away and let themselves be lost in the glass bottom of cheap beer.

But love can heal.

Love can be when your beloved returns, holding you as you both weep and finally repair your bonds. Love is trying again, taking the same steps, adding in new ones. Love is holding your breath as a new seedling grows, and laughing and crying as you can hear the soft murmur of their heartbeat.

Love is smiling as you hold the seedling, now sprouted and bloomed, in your arms as it whimpers and wails.

But some loves are different. Some loves don’t want seedlings, some loves are selfish. Some loves prefer themselves; some loves share it with others.

For me?

Love is something I want so badly. I want someone to love me. I want to be held after a bad day, of listening to their heartbeat. I want a love who would sit by my side and sing along with my voice. I want a love who sees my cooking and laughs as I mess up a recipe. I want a love who looks at me and sees me glow like the setting sun. I want a love who treats me as I am the most sublime woman they ever gazed upon.

I want love.

Don’t you?