So, what do I want from love when it comes knocking again (for I’m sure it will)?
I want someone whose eyes fill up with warmth and silk when he looks at me. His eyes glistening with gratitude for having found us. He is brought to his knees by the raw affection we feel for each other. Gossamer but eternal, loving but sturdy, avant-garde but true, boring but raving. Someone who wants to be with me every moment of his life, although we cannot and should not. Someone who asks how my day went, expecting lengthy answers and devouring it all. Someone who checks links and videos I send him so he can get inside my wiry head. Someone for whom my body is a temple of love, a sacred place that should not be violated. Someone willing to go the distance, to choose me and us above everything else. Someone for whom hurting me, with or without intention, feels like walking on fire with his bare feet.
He is open to life, our differences, and this catastrophic world with a bosom of empathy. Someone equitable and respectful to his very core. Someone who guards his promises like combination locks on safety deposits. I don’t need to ask for anything—worthy gifts, understanding, respect, empathy, or reassurance. None. Because he is an ocean of these unasked blessings, embracing me with everything all the time. He believes in me, in him, and in us, and knows that we are the best thing that ever happened to us. He wouldn’t squander our time or life together because he cherishes it. Way too much. He exposes himself, mentally and physically, with no fear. There are no masks between us.
Every evening, we come home to each other, leaving the world behind. Our pretty solace negates all petty concerns of the outside. He lays his head on my lap and watches TV while I read a book, both in complete invigoration. We climb onto the bed and cuddle up every night, never going to sleep without saying, “I love you, my dearest.” Our limbs dovetailing in oscillating synchronicity throughout the night, relaxing and shielding.
We carve out the spice of life every day. We live amid adventure and inspiration, bound by eternal love. Our travels are wondrous; we embark on many unexpected journeys. Experiences – worthy experiences – galore. Turquoise water and audacious sunsets. He observes my eyes lighting up with magic and smiles his happy smile. We create a rosy garland out of these experiences and wear it around our necks simultaneously. Life is a pedestrian river with occasional tumultuous vibrations, but we thrive on the waves of each other’s love and encouraging nods.
I can depend on him when I lose my phone or when I’m scared of public-speaking or when my dad struggles with cancer. I unconditionally turn to him and only him. He drops everything and is there for me because he knows I’m an independent bitch who does not ask for help even when I ought to. He knows me so well that he can grasp my upset when I walk into the room.
In a world where every damn thing wavers, I know that his affection is the only thing that does not waver. His love is unreserved like a soft blanket that keeps me warm without stifling me, its permanency injecting wonder into my bones while I hold onto dear life.
His fundamentals in life align with mine. We grow from the same green grass and we follow the same path of freedom. Our mere differences are respected by each other, and we agree to lovingly disagree. At the end of the day, our molds are the same.
With time, love generally stales down like bread kept out for a few days straight. But ours won’t, because it is not neglected and kept out. Deliberately consistent effort keeps our love alive and kicking. Our love will only get better with time, like wine and whiskey. An emotional honeymoon every day.
When minor changes are requested in behavior, like being more attentive to my texts or not using his phone while dining with me, he has no hesitation in making these changes for my peace of mind. The excuse of “this is just how I am” is never brandished at me in arrogant banter. He makes effort and continues to make more effort. And I do the same for him. For us. Quirks are more than tolerated. They are celebrated with pride and remarkable humor.
We spend all our weekends—or as much of it as we can—in each other’s nooks, discussing the big questions of life that fascinate us both. We are nothing short of thriving together, like a pair of playful penguins in the poles. We are in our own land of self-fulfillment, coming out into the open when we must.
When it’s time for wrinkle faces and flabby arms, gray stubble invasions in sight, I hope we will still look across the busy hallway, catch the other’s smiling eye, and say to no one in particular, “That’s my quirky love.” I pray that we will not maintain mere companionship like most rancid loves do and that we will thrive on the burning flame of affection that cannot be put out even if we tried.
This is the wholesome love. And this is what you deserve, baby girl.
