What is love?
Is it living with someone for fifty years,
or the sudden spark of familiarity in a stranger’s eyes?
Is it remembering them in drunken haze,
or thinking of them endlessly, night and day?
Is love the urge to give them everything,
to weave happiness into every corner of their world?
Or is it the strength to let them go,
even when your heart aches to hold on?
Is it baring your soul,
every secret, every scar?
Or is it the silence that speaks louder than words,
the comfort of saying nothing at all?
Is love when nothing feels awkward between us,
or when I still get shy in front of him?
Is it when I become a mother, caring for him,
or when I turn into a little girl again?
Perhaps love was the butterflies
when I saw him for the first time,
or perhaps it was the emptiness
when I saw him for the last.
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