Its hard to find these words

You might think that late at night, in the little hours, when gentle breathing occasionally gives way to satisfied snores and you reach over to caress my face, that is love.

It’s not.

Or that moment when someone is on bended knee and the whole world watches, that is love.

It’s not.

Final breaths, last promises, tears forcing their way out of your heart anyway they can. Pain wringing you dry like a towel.

It’s not. At least to me.

Don’t misunderstand, it is a complex thing love. My version and yours will not necessarily match and that is reasonably unreasonable. My love and yours can easily be a world apart. And by no means does one invalidate or upstage the other. I can only attempt to speak upon my version of the most elusive creature within me.

It hides, plays jealously, teases and tickles. It sulks and brags at times. It makes breakfast occasionally. Tells stories too loudly but can whisper so quietly you could almost swear nothing was said.

At its best it’s tender, wanting to cuddle, hold or just nap tucked into you. Its attentive blankets spread warm as you sleep or drawing pictures of your braids when you aren’t looking. At its worst, it’s a rainstorm in the living room or angry pans in the kitchen. Regrets and balled up apologies to unravel later with pleading.

It tries to brush away tears without you seeing. It thinks about buying a single flower in some poetic gesture then blusters and leaves empty-handed and regrets that decision. As cool and collected as I may be, or at least think I am, love will make me awkward and sing silly, attempting to birth that special smile to your lips.

Love is a promise encompassing all the others. It’s crooked, slanted, and tilts incorrectly. It tries so hard to forgive me. And I can feel that patience. Accepting, nodding, understanding and sometimes just dealing.

When I’m far from perfect. Smelly breath and mussed up hair but you still choose to share that little bit of air between us. You lean in as if you want to wear my mess, in fact you don’t want to share it with anyone else. You make me feel right, though we both know otherwise.

That is love.

To me.