Some loves only taste better in the wee hours of the morning, in between gasping sheets, only teaching you how to bruise in places nobody sees. Those loves only know how to pick you up without caring how you fall. It’s easy to get lost in the kind of love that does nothing but make you crave for more.
Most loves know how to create a look they say are just for you. They write you letters in your sleep, whispering words about the world conspired for you to meet. Those loves hold your hand tight when you’re shaking but they never let you hold theirs. When it’s late, and the sun has bid his ways, those loves tell you every song is about you. Every line ever drawn has tried to mimic you. Every poem spells out your name. Those loves smile softly, then you never see them again.
When I met your love, I did not know what to think. I did not understand the way my bones wanted to rest alongside yours for as long as you’d allow. I did not understand the way I did not demand to be loved, but I was and I am loved by you so ardently that there isn’t a single piece of me that doubts it. Your love is the kind of love that must be written by something higher than you and I could ever imagine because how else can anybody explain the way I ache and long for your warmth so much it brings me to my knees? I talk to God about the way I love you and I cry.
I never understood why I’d cry.
There are loves that leave us, and there are loves that stay with us. Your love is neither. Your love, I think, has always been here, with me. When we’re tangled with each other like this, I understand that there are loves deeper than the sea.
There are loves that are meant to be, just like you and me.