Real love will stretch your heart but not leave it out of shape. Scratch that. Real love will fucking stick its hands into your ribs, unhinge that muscle in your chest and give it away to her breath. It will rewire the engine in your head so that your sight is tinged with her colour, your mind dipped in her thought, your eyes always searching for her smile, your ears her voice, your tongue so thirsty for the way her taste laughs down your throat.
Real love doesn’t make you feel small. It explodes inside your body to remind you that you are the stuff of stars and she is the exact opposite and the exact definition of the kind of space you need to breathe just right, You see, real love is not staring at your phone waiting for it to light up with her name, it’s picking it up, dialing her number and getting drunk off the sound of her voice as it changes channels when it’s kissed with her smile. Real love, is how she makes you want to be so much better just so you could be a sliver of what she deserves.
I’m guessing it’s close to about 6 a.m; shards of sleepy sunlight trickle through the windowpane and across the floor. She’s lying in my arms, dreaming. Her body is a city of its own. I have imagined this moment so many times, run the thought along every edge of my mind but not once did I anticipate this feeling. I’m holding her. My fingers wrapped across her waist, her head on my shoulder, locks of hair falling softly against my skin. I try to time my breath with hers. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The entirety of her, the beauty, the breathtaking reality cannot be encompassed in words. I’m watching her eyelids flicker like raindrops, her mouth settled between a frown and the beginning of a smile, and God, I will never be able to do her justice. In this moment, all I want, every penny I could ever throw into a wishing well would have her name and this feeling, this little sliver of time, and space and sound settled on its skin. This is real love.
The way I can never be the one to hang up a phone call just because the simple thought of breaking a connect to her crumples my breath inside the trash can of things I never want to feel. How I can’t stop looking at her from across a table, or a bus seat, or a bedroom. The way she squeals and smiles and mooses and cries when she listens to spoken word poetry. This girl makes me want to stretch my heart across the entire world just so she can find it everywhere she goes. Real love, is feeling her pain amplified in my bones, is wanting to rescue her from a broken home, and never let her go. Real love is just watching her- watching her read a book or slouch in an airplane seat and listen to music or play with her fork or sip from a straw or get excited over a cute baby that’s actually not that cute because my definition of all things cute, beautiful, pretty, breathtaking, and magical has been rearranged into her name and the way she is so effortlessly amazing.
Real love is this. You wake up one morning and your entire axis of gravity rests in one person. You peek inside your chest and realise your heart is somewhere else. It’s hoping that it’s stretched out of shape only to have it settle into something that will hold hers right. Real love is this. It’s her. It’s her. And how it will always, always, be.
the stuff of stars.