Love Languages Are Frivolous & Other Confessions

How do you love? Is it loud? Do you shout it from the rooftops and hear it echo down the alley? Do you plug it in the aux of your car and feel it reverberating through the feet of strangers as you cruise down the road? Is it soft? Do you whisper it in the ear of your lover on a rainy Sunday morning as they lay asleep on the same pillow? Do you purposefully set your watch five minutes ahead so you will never have to keep another waiting for you? How do you love? I want to know. 

My love manifests in seemingly infinite ways. It’s in the books I read, in the quotes I underline that I think you’d find interesting, even when I know you will never read them. It’s the collection of songs I put together in a playlist, and it doesn’t matter to me whether you listen or not because all I care about is that you have it, that you know it is a piece of my heart from me to you. My love is in my writing, isn’t it obvious? Every word is carved and molded and shaped for you, and even when my stories do not mention you by name, they are always still about you -- because everything I do is about you. 

There seems to be an “I love you” in everything I do. I love you when I take out the trash. I love you when I boil water for your cup of tea. I love you when I “accidentally” miss the next train just so I can spend a couple extra minutes in your presence. I love you in my good morning texts and in every phone call. I love you in the fruit I cut up after dinner, and I love you in handwritten birthday cards. I love you when I recognize your laugh in a crowded room, and I love you in the way I memorize the lines on your palm and the shape of your shoulder, and the softness on the back of your knees. I love you when I read your favorite book, even when it’s over a thousand pages long. I love you when I know your go-to coffee order, and I love you in giving you the best bite of my sandwich.

My love, it lingers for people I do not want it to, despite my refutations and resistance. It stands in the doorway of the exit of an airport, the entrance of his apartment building, the parking lot of the mall, all of the places I have said goodbye because love is felt the most when it's leaving. My love is frozen in time, how it knew someone like the back of my hand but only for a year or two. It stays there, unable to wane or dwindle. Sometimes if I reach back, like extending a hand from the driver’s seat to the backseat, I can still touch it and feel it run through my fingers like running water. 

I  love like a conversation. Sometimes it is loud, fierce, banter with fervor that it is almost an argument. Sometimes it is quiet, comfortable silence, and we are exchanging words without actually saying anything. I love like a religion. You are my God, and I kneel at your feet. I am baptized whenever you look at me; your smile is my prayer. I love like the way I eat. In bits and pieces, sometimes, savoring the best bit for last. Giving you half of my portion just because I want to share, even when I’m still hungry. I devour, sometimes. Shoving handfuls into my mouth without giving myself a second to catch my breath, stuffing myself until I can barely sit upright. I am full, yet I still want more. 

Tell me a secret. How do you love? Is it as simple as asking a question? 

“How are you?” (I couldn’t fall asleep last night for all I could think about was you, and I was afraid that if I did fall asleep, you would not appear in my dreams, and what a waste of eight hours if you had not been there.)

“What are you afraid of?” (Do you fear loss as much as I do? Living a life without your voice in it? I am terrified of you because of the power you hold over me. Ask me to jump off a cliff, and I would think I could fly.) 

“Are you hungry?” (I am starved of your laughter. I want to consume you whole.)

“Tell me a secret.” (I love you.)