Love is spoken — gossiped — about
as if it’s obvious and explicit.
But often love is something
I know what I want to say
but cannot find the words for it.
It sits behind my controlled tongue,
dying quietly in my throat.
Instead it becomes
“text me when you get home?”
not to entrap the other person,
but to consider their safety,
trusting they will answer
even when life gets
in the way of a timely reply.
It is calendar invites,
gently adjusting schedules and
making time with no time
just to make room
for another person in the day.
It is peeling fruit for others,
when the tiring aches of life
set so deep into one’s bones
that such a small effort
feels like a marathon.
Staining one’s hands and clothes
with splatters of pomegranate juice
just to de-seed the perfect fruit.
The scent of orange
that lingers even after three hand washes.
Minor inconveniences
that are barely inconvenient,
because they end in a smile.
Love is
actively and consistently choosing
to protect another
even at personal detriment
and even when
it costs something unseen.
It is asking endless questions,
staying for the answers
and asking more follow-up questions.
Anyone can ask “How are you?”
as a mere habit or pleasantry,
but it takes a lot more
to actually care at all
for what shapes
another’s day.
