She is Love

She Is Love

“I’ve been beaten down, I’ve been kicked around, But she takes it all for me. And I lost my faith, in my darkest days, But she makes me want to believe. They call her love, love, love, love, love. They call her love, love, love, love, love. She is love, and she is all I need.” Parachute
I read recently that women bond over war stories and that’s why most blogs are so man-hating. If you’ve ever come to my blog and thought I hated men, please forgive me. Men, I love you; I appreciate your contribution to my life; I value your presence whether stranger or friend. Most of my posts have absolutely nothing to do with you, but more about realizations from moments we’ve had together. You teach me so much about what I want from love, and how I want to be love to you.

With that being said I’d like to share some of my best moments, happenings that cleaved my heart to yours in the past.

I remember my first real kiss. Rom-com worthy, he cupped my face with his hands, closed his eyes, gently melded his lips with mine. The trace of his tongue parted my lips, taste buds to taste buds, he never rushed me. Eased his hands down my body, rested them firmly at the curve of my spine. He brought us closer as my toes curled to tips rising up to meet his breath.

I remember that song, some childhood ditty. He would nuzzle my neck and hum the words against my skin.

When I woke up to the clasp of his hands in mine; how even while sleeping he yearned to touch me. The gentleness of his fingertips, the calluses in his hands, the heat of his grasp.

The time he brought me French fries and found Minnie Ripperton on my iPod. The way he cajoled me to slow dance in the middle of the living room—just us, the music, and the moonlight.

When he sat on my couch and asked me about my dreams, tracing the shadows of my veins on my arms, listening intently asking questions when I paused.

The first time we cooked together, how excited he was at the doorway to the kitchen watching the coconut chicken fry. The way he hugged me tightly so grateful for a simple meal.

The sides of the bed understood until midnight when I’d feel warm hands pull me close and breathe in my scent. Waking up to imprints tiny markings that would fade in the shower. Etchings of being held, enveloped, wanted.

The daily check-in, quotidian reports of habitual tasks. How your coworkers became my coworkers—and vice versa. Family members I know by face, name, date of birth, likes and dislikes. Intertwined, zipped together, intimate knowledge that only we share.

The mutual investment in each other’s lives. To predict his actions because I know his routine. Mundane rituals become grand adventures because of his presence, his jokes, his dialogue added to my monologue.

This is why we women seek, not to find a replacement him, but to have a him to create moments with. Because for some reason when it’s good, it’s so much better. Because he adds to the story. When it’s reciprocated there’s no better harvest.

I would take any war story ten times over just to have the memories in my repertoire. Because love is all you need.


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