I’m searching for something I’ll never find. His sunken bones, heavy with sorrow, are telling me more than these words between us that trail into the thin night air. In his hands he held what he had of me, borrowed and returned with wear. Those same hands, stiff in his pockets, not reaching out for comfort. I was chasing the words as I said them, wanting to swallow them whole so I could rephrase them to spit them back out at him. Somber, solemn, and silent. The moment I turned my back, I missed him. And to think I called this love. Eager to jump into the arms of anyone who was willing to catch me, anyone who would sing sweet nothings to me. All at once, all too much. Empty promises turned inside out, searching for the truth I thought they had, diluted confessions of affection. Then the disgust of it all, the feeling of hollow despair. Is this not love?
It was raining and I sought solace in a noisy coffee shop. Sinking into the puffy leather armchair, one that wears its wear with pride, I was balancing a dirty chai, a chocolate chip muffin, and a book. Between my frantic annotations, a boy walked up the stairs with a cold brew. Before he sat down, our eyes caught one another. A split second to relish in the intimacy of eye contact. Immersed back into our own worlds, he in his laptop and I in my pages, we weren’t disturbed again until the man next to him abruptly stood up to pack his things and leave. Again, we shared a brief stare, together in curiosity. Another couple emerged up the stairs to replace where the man was sitting, and of course we looked at each other again, and held on a second more, a delicacy rich with thrill. His eyes were blue. I longed for him to look at me again, as I wanted to look at him. I read three more chapters in that armchair as it swallowed me whole. As it was my time to leave, I wanted him to follow me out. I left my seat empty, to perhaps be occupied by another girl who’s story might start with his quick moments of eye contact. The scent of coffee clinging to my clothes, rain on my cheeks, how long until the glances aren’t stolen, but exchanged? Love stories that only ever play in my head. Stolen glances. Is this not love?
To have a crush is to be a little girl again. Using the word as an adult feels silly, but we both were young in our feelings, perhaps unprepared to decipher what we meant, what we wanted. A back and forth with someone, neither one of us committing. Playful and comfortable, we rode the waves of flirtation, his hand on my back, a fistful of his shirt in my hands. He would lean in close to my ear when we were out drinking at the dive bars, I thought this was as good as it gets! To have someone pay attention to me, to want to ensure I was heard. The comfort of a friend turned lover, already knowing someone in the context of themselves, one you admire already. You can only hope to live out the future you imagined, but then the next second it's over. Or he doesn't respond as fast anymore. Or he doesn't go out of his way to stand next to you. Affection that ended before it peaked. Yearning. Pining. Is this not love?
Swiping through a copious amount of boys placed directly at my fingertips. Swiping past the pickup lines and the subtle red flags. Matching with subpar boys to fill the need of being wanted. To remedy a fake connection with one, maybe he gets my number, but his name is never saved. He’ll pay close attention to me for maybe a month or two, asking time and time again to get drinks, or have dinner, or go for a drive. And every time I’ll be at a family function, or a dentist appointment, or whatever excuse my mind comes up with first. For these connections are superficial to me, only useful to make me feel less alone. Like an extra glass of wine on a Saturday night, just enough to blur. Boys as transactions, boys as commodities. Is this not love?
Typically in every other instance, I wouldn’t mind. Busy with other things with no time to sit and dwell on the complexity of the love I’ve experienced. But when my mind isn’t occupied, I’m still in the intricacy. My parents share space and share time and share their thoughts. To come home to someone. I’ve had friends in long term relationships, seen my peers get engaged, get married, have kids. To create a life with someone. How lucky, how special! It’s easy to become envious, almost second nature. I’ll have The Smith’s on repeat, Ultraviolence on my record player. For some, love grows plump and in abundance. And as much as I hate to admit it, I wish it did for me.
But when I walk into the door after a long day, my dog is overflowing with excitement, that he brings me one of his favorite toys. Is this not love?
When I lay my bones to sleep, wrapped in my sheets, I feel my cat collapse her little body next to mine, curled up in the crevice of my legs, sharing our warmth. Is this not love?
Walking up and washing your face, and dressing yourself in clothes that make you feel like yourself. Making breakfast, taking deep breaths, talking out loud, making yourself laugh, passing by a mirror and sharing a smile with your reflection. Is this not love?
Having eight years of friendship with someone, and sharing every thought that crosses my mind, knowing me better than I know myself. Texting through football games, as if we were seated next to each other. Talking of our dreams, of our troubles, checking in, growing up. Is this not love?
Texting someone good morning, every day without fail. Is this not love?
Aching and missing someone far away. They answer the phone through drunk tears or drunk laughs. Sending three minute long voice memos knowing, in return you’ll receive one back, just as long. Is this not love?
Talking with my mom until the middle of the night. Is this not love?
Being vulnerable with someone. Admitting your feelings. Sharing your fears. Staring too long. Taking your chances, calling them beautiful. Calling them handsome. Complimenting a stranger. Is this not love?
Sitting in silence together. Being still. Is this not love?
The grandeur of love, a monster to be tamed, does not seem so monstrous when all that is around us is love and full of life. We search for a love that we already have, the love we receive moment to moment, the mundane acts of devotion that string ourselves together. We become molded and shaped, like damp clay, as this love imprints us, day by day a collection of the love that touched us. To give love is to receive it, to have and to hold. How boisterous and unforgiving it may be, how heartbroken and weary it may leave you, it is also alive and growing, small and forgiving. The search for love is rather unnecessary, because love will always search for you.
much love to you, until next time,
natalie <3