Love is hazel.
It’s the color of your eyes when you watch me, that unusual lightness that seems like the sun shining through shards of tinted glass as you look at me, through me, inside me. It’s the color of your stare when you think I’m asleep, the color of your glare when I pour my milk before putting in my cereal. It’s the hazel that warms me, warms me like fuzzy slippers when my laughter ends in a snort and you give me that look. You love all the dork in me with those eyes when I belt along to Heart in the car and when I work out our change at the corner shop on my fingers and toes.
Love is tart.
It’s the taste of the raspberries I wake up to, the ones you bring me when I sleep late. It’s the whirr of the blender when you make my fruity smoothies, when you chuck an apple into my lunchbox for my ‘vitamin fix’. It’s your tone whenever I try to be self-deprecating, it’s you when you think you’re a lap-dancing Danny Castellano to my Mindy Lahiri.
Love is steam.
It’s your foggy glasses as you fumble with the tea kettle, it’s the mist rising up from the cup of tea you can’t stand, but you make every evening because I want it. It’s how you gently rub my back to wake me up when I fall asleep on the couch, how you walk me to the hot bath you draw for after a long, frustrating day without you. It’s the sigh that curls around my tongue when you kiss me, it’s the tension in your fingers when you hold me. It’s Sunday mornings and it’s Saturday evenings, and it’s every day in between.
Love is wet.
It’s rainy days and the scratch of Otis Redding records, and me curled up behind you because you know I like to be the big spoon. It’s the kiss you place in my palm, your open-mouthed kiss on my crooked baby finger, the one I broke, the one you swear is your favorite. It’s how you step into the shower to wash my hair because my arms hurt, it’s the damp in my eyes when you call my mom every weekend.
Love is all the colors, all the textures, everything, all; the feelings, the moments, big and small.