the feeling of love is warm, an embrace between a child and grandparent,
love’s existence branches out to be visceral, like the summer’s grass beneath calloused feet, a running leap away from the worlds veracious lessons,
but as it’s a human emotion, love is only what we make it out to be, something that feels so existent couldn’t possibly only subsist within our subconsciousness,
but rather it is held in the palms of our hands, leaned against the walls of our childhood rooms, amongst the penciled in initials of varying heights,
love is balanced on one hip, like baskets of laundered clothes, carried throughout ourselves and onto each-other,
(the feeling of the warm laundry your mom would dump onto you - as a child laying unexpectedly)
in contact, love is overwhelming, it sits at the bottom of your stomach and latches onto your lungs, leaving you winded,
when you no longer etch in the lines that met atop your head, love is sneaking in smiles between unconstrained kisses,
(love in young-adulthood)
and inevitably, when your body and mind outgrow the length of your bright colored shoes, love becomes apart of something else,
it becomes a part of your story,
and stories don’t always go the way we want, they disappoint and they distract from the rest of the things that matter..
but I had hoped you’d be apart of my story longer than you were, because you mattered to me.
it mattered how you’d call at random times, just to hear my voice.
how you’d cup my face in your hands, and kiss me breathless.
It mattered, it still does.
so I’ll sit at night, and wonder if you ever think about me in that way still.
and I’ll wonder if it matters to you too.
