Prompt: Tell me what gives you butterflies. Write for ten minutes writing down anything and everything that makes you nervous. Choose one and write for ten more minutes describing all of the different feelings that happen in your body at the thought of doing that one thing. You can take it one step further and put it into a form of your choosing if you like.
Love. It’s a strange word.
In French, c’est l’amour.
Somehow, adding apostrophes and a string of letters
gives a four letter word an immediate
sense of elegance and class.
I can recall the first time I fell in love,
or at least the first time I thought I was in love.
I sat on a stoop,
watching the sunrise,
talking about nothing and everything
until almost 4 am.
My heart beat faster and faster
until it burst, broken, defeated
two years later.
At the start of this new year,
a few years after my heart had finally burst free,
I discovered what love actually was.
There was no anxiety
or hot, painful tears,
or even sleepless nights wondering if the feelings would last.
Instead, I felt complete.
The part of me that I didn’t realize was missing
found its way into my heart, my eyes, my smile.
Our story unraveled like a fairy tale,
and the collective 22 and 30 years it had taken us to meet up
seemed less like a lifetime apart
and more like a lifetime of forgotten pasts,
for the past no longer mattered,
and the present was the future.
Now, we dance the dance
of knowing our hearts beat as one,
that we want to declare our love–
a four letter word I had come to view as a curse–
to one another in front of our family and friends,
and that one day, we, too, may actually have the opportunity
to march down the aisle
and live happily ever after.