Foreign Languages

She said, the thing that was the heaviest, most significant, grave even, to learn was this:  Love doesn't alway have a feeling.  Or at least feelings that you still recognize.  So often it is silent and maybe even a little dull.  Its language becomes so familiar, we forget that it ever made your heart race trying to understand its unique dialect.

Love is simple.  Its when you go to bed and your foot drifts under the cover to touch him.  Or you curl your back into his side just to steal his heat and he reciprocates with a kiss on the head.  Love is picking up milk (and that special chocolate he knows you love) and taking out the garbage.  And seeing your person across the room at a party and knowing that you'd introduce yourself all over again, if today were the first day.

I have known real love.  Not the make believe kind.  But the kind whose language you forget you know.  Love that withstands all kinds of storms and leaves you ravaged and wrecked, but still worthy in his eyes.  Protected and safe and warm.

And I didn't know all of this until it went away.  Was removed.  No longer extended.  As though a web that I've been carried by just suddenly disappeared.

And lonely is like I never imagined it could be.