What Is Love?

It’s not what you think it is.

It’s not that combination

of pheromones and hormones

or the sense of euphoria that accompanies

that rush of dopamine

when you meet someone you *want.*

Lust is a disguise sometimes worn by love,

naively.

But lust also belongs to itself—

foolish and selfish,

a separate entity ruled by emotion

that cannot be trusted as love can,

to follow through.

Finding love is not a search

for perfection.

It is realizing that perfection

does not exist.

That our other half does not always

make us whole,

and shouldn’t have to.

It is being wise enough to understand

the object of your affection can mirror your

discontent and irritation with life—

but that does not make them the cause of it.

Love looks different with age.

A softer, comfortable, dependable version of itself.

It is waking up to a familiar stranger

in your bed, every day, after 15 years,

and accepting that you will only ever know

as much as they want to tell you.

It is losing the hand that holds yours,

tracing the map on your own palms, lost,

but choosing to walk together,

discussing which way to travel.

Reaching for that hand to find it reaching back.

And waiting for it, having faith,

if it is not there.

But, the most important question isn’t—

“What is love?”

It is—

“How do you know when you’ve found it?”

The answer to that,

so often is,

You don’t.

​

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