by Nathalia G., 18
Love is paint splattered dreams. An artist creating their lover with their heart, not their hands. A sculptor dreaming that their lover is a sculpture and sculpting them with broken fingers, pressing warm flesh to cool marble.
Love is the flowers that grow in the meadow of kindness. Picking wildflowers for those you hold dear and presenting them with an array of what you feel and hoping they understand what your tongue can never say.
Love is the tender touch at night. Reaching across a sea of blankets to hold your moon and stars. Your breath hitching until you find them and holding them until your heart calms.
Love is music. Playing a symphony that may not caress you the way it does your lover. Smiling because they are smiling even though you don’t understand what it is in the beat that moves them.
Love is in the eyes. A gentle touch, your soul coming into contact with your darlings. Seeing their colors mingling with yours and realizing that humans aren’t meant to be separate beings.
Love is okay. It is okay to love and it is okay to dream and to pick flowers and to touch each other when you need assurance and to play music and look at them with tenderness from the windows of your soul. It is okay to love. I only ask that if you love, love with every cell of your being.
Bridge Ink 