I have figured out
The beloved must be lucky
for a few good souls have told me
how difficult it is to love
and how precious and long
the time spent
to know that love is dear,
to feel that it is real
I find it magical nonetheless
how love turns you
less for yourself and more for the other
– who turns into someone else other than a friend,
or the best of it – and so
it burdens the self
with loads of outward caring,
of wanting to talk with
and of longing to see the person every hour, every day
of thinking often about the beloved, and of thinking often about the beloved’s happiness, and of putting it before yours
of spending time,
of making time
and effort,
and of conscious sacrificing,
of standing up for that person no matter what
of saying yes even when you’re afraid of what’s to come
of doing whatever it takes
whenever, wherever
of respecting and forgiving and understanding –
a lot of accepting
the entirety of the person
the habits, attitudes, looks
the good, the bad, and the ugly
– all forms of imperfection –
and of knowing how they are perfected by love,
of always choosing the person even when unlovable,
of remembering the mistakes but continuing to love,
of ultimately forgetting about the beloved’s flaws,
or of forgetting about the world around
of going the extra mile to make the beloved smile,
of making everything rhyme with time, with the moments that you are together
and of staying
despite the certainty of leaving
for in death we all part
– but for you nothing lasts except this love –
of dreaming of a life together,
of believing in the promise of forever
of conceding that all your thoughts, worries, dreams, and aspirations are not for you alone –
the world stops being only about yourself
all the lovely surrender
is always for the other
But the self never tires
for it finds home right there
in the heart of the beloved
which makes you want to jump in excitement
to the familiar smell made special
by the gift of pure presence
It makes you vulnerable
but you just find yourself not looking to run away from it anymore
The joy, comfort, and security that you feel
make you always want to go back
homeward bound
where you belong,
in heat of May
or cold of December,
of all the changing seasons,
where your hands are gripped tighter
when things are harder;
where your soul is free
even when things don’t come too easy
The beloved rejoices
and the one who loves as well
for the lover knows that love
has turned him into a much
better person than he was –
a better version of himself –
more caring,
more understanding,
more aware of the demands of love,
always more
than just a lover
Until the lover knows
of the inexplicable and uncontrollable feeling of love
of frisson, and a heart fluttering
of sometimes rest, of sometimes unrest
where logic and reason do not come out of hiding
everything suddenly
has a new meaning
that even when incomprehensible,
the lover just has to look at the beloved’s eyes,
in the absence of fireworks
and fairy tale music supposedly playing in the background
– just the beloved’s total gaze –
to know that love is there,
to feel that it is real
without a single trace of doubt
This is it,
This is just love I am feeling
just the utter sureness of a heart in love
no checklist to follow
or whatsoever that tries to measure our capacity to love
only that act of marvelling in the combined mystery
and certainty of it
only that eternal hope to catch its call
with whatever little we have
You told me
you don’t know the signs that you really are in love
I do
I find myself
writing poems for you
for I know
that love knocks on my door
every time I fill my lines with your name
And so I write this prose for you
For I, too, am unsure of love
I am only almost always certain that
whenever I think of the beloved,
I think of you
Life Begins at 21 