I remember somebody once told me that love isn't what you see when you're out in public, or when you're broadcasting yourself in some sort of forum. Love is what happens when nobody is looking.
Love takes out the trash. Love stays up late.
Love is what happens when somebody makes the other person better...when they fill the gap. And love is seen by those who watch, those who listen, and those who observe. And when a supposed love burns down the carefully placed combustibles that make up a person, that torch the tiny and spider-like connections to all the other people that happen to be connected, then it is not love. It is a toxin. It is an addiction that is compelling, and singular, and focused. And it tastes like love. And it acts like love.
But it is its opposite. It is pride. And it is love of self.
And sometimes, it is only when you lose something that you love, or have the impact of almost losing something that you love, that you realize the fragility of it. The happenstance of it. The mercurial thing we all seek.
I don't love a lot of things. But the things and people I do know that I do. (Or I hope they do) But I don't show it in an endless of array of sayings, or comments or elaborate schemes.
It's in the tiniest, tiniest portions, doled out with a silver ladle. A favorite meal. A favorite salsa. A favorite drink. An extra hour to sleep in. Coffee made fresh.
It ultimately is the action of love that reveals, not the words that are written or murmured. The actions. The constant refrain of unsolicited, unbiased, unrequited, unexpected actions. Some visible, but many invisible.
Those that are loved feel the tiny delicate drops of such actions. They stand in a rain, they stand in a storm. They know they are loved, and they never need doubt it. Love never asks, nor does it need reminders.
Love is where you can return to, always. Even after it has been stepped on, discarded and almost forgotten.
Because love isn't what you feel when you are with somebody...it's what you feel when you are without somebody.
