Chemistry VS Love

18 Jun

I.

It is as if her whole body lit up.

Her smiles are wider

Her laughter comes easier.

And her feet barely touches the ground.

So excited is she to see him.

She tries hard to suppress herself.

But you can see it.

In the way she leans in to hear his words.

In the way she becomes stock-still

When her arm casually brushes his.

She is storing the touch, the glance,

The way he looks leaning back in his chair.

She stores them.

Because these are the only things she can keep of him.

And even these, she will later bleed out in ink.

II.

It is as if her whole body lit up.

Her smiles are wider

Her laughter comes easier

And her feet barely touches the ground,

So excited is she to see him.

She…kisses him.

Puts her arms around him.

And holds him.

Rests her head against his chest.

And hears his steady heartbeat.

Slow.

Steady.

And this,

This is why she must suppress herself the first time.

Because.

This one she loves.

And the other one, she might have loved.

And there isn’t any right answer

As to whether this one or the other is more right for her.

She has kissed and hugged and loved and fought with and struggled with

The person in front of her

And the question that must be asked instead

Is whether she wants to keep doing so

Even if her soul yearns for that other boy,

Yearns for his words, his intensity,

Even if she knew he was meant for her,

It is not complete love.

III.

The truth is…the truth is love is work.

Not the kind of work you do from 9-5.

One that deadens your soul and puts you in a cubicle,

Where the individual is marked only by a plant and a picture.

No, it is the kind of work that makes you get up at the crack of dawn,

That moves your internal time along with the seasons of planting, growing, reaping, and lying fallow.

It is the kind of work that you do neither standing nor sitting,

But somewhere in between

Your feet sticking in mud.

Your back aching.

Your knees hurting.

Under the merciless sun and heat.

Always in danger

From the storms,

The locusts,

And people who will say this land you have tended is not yours.

Love is that kind of work.

It is hard.

And you struggle.

And in the end,

You feed your soul and his.

Just as the harvest of those who work the land

Feeds your people.

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