my love

I wrote this earlier this year after hearing, "My love has never known reciprocity," over and over again in my head (it still rings true).

my love smells like

the ocean,

smells like beer.

smells like old books

and forested woods.

smells like laundry detergent

(tide)

which will linger in the pores

of my hair

long after i've left.

my love tastes like

poutine and morning breath and popcorn.

tastes like sushi and coffee.

my love tastes like salt

like the salt of truffle fries

and chicken strips

like the salt from the tears

that seep from the crevices

of my eyes.

my love feels like

hands on waists,

feels like wandering hands

and forehead pecks.

feels like comfort.

feels like pain,

feels like an ache in my chest

or a lump in my throat

feels like hands grasping at straws,

feels like wondering why it hurts this way.

my love sounds like

you're beautiful.

sounds like i really like you

like i want your lips on mine,

sounds like i wish you were here —

i wish my arms were wrapped around you —

sounds like i wish i could talk to you right now.

my love sounds like it's not you, it's me;

sounds like i don't want to hurt you,

sounds like i gotta go.

my love sounds like i don't know how i feel about you,

sounds like maybe if we knew each other longer.

my love sounds like

i knew you were gonna say that,

sounds like i need a straight answer.

my love sounds like silence.

my love looks like second chances,

looks like believing in the best in people,

looks like maybe it'll work out this time.

my love looks like

an empty room,

a ghost town,

population one.

my love has never known reciprocity.

has never known worthiness

or effort

or time —

has never known the depths that one would go

nor known the utter jubilation of being

in love —

of having someone

in love with me.

je reve d'é - indolore