love is memorizing her freckles. it’s knowing which ones form tiny constellations across her face and neck and forearms. it’s taking up residence between these landmarks, creating tiny civilizations within the boundaries of her body, so intimate and familiar.
love is knowing the stories of his scars. it’s the way her fingers drift reverently across them without thought, the way she wishes she could press her fingerprints indelibly into his skin.
love is leaving the light on. it’s crocuses peeking through soil and sugar caramelizing in a hot pan. love is green and blue and soft and grey. it simmers and boils and sizzles and steams. it’s a symphony and a sonnet, a half-written song and the missing six of spades
love is dog-eared pages of favorite books. it’s torn-out articles and letters in the mail. love is gentle and fierce. it stretches and surrenders and bends over backwards. it’s the wind in his hair and her grandfather’s tie. love is dilated pupils and freshly stained wood. it’s drips in the paint and hand-blown glass, grass stains on new trousers and snow angels in the sand.
love is reading between the lines and lipstick left on the rim. it’s the brooklyn bridge at sunset and the first night in a new home.
love is memorizing her freckles. it’s the way they line up perfectly with his scars.