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on love, and falling in love with it

some nights I look at my hands and wonder what it’d be like to have somebody’s fingers intertwined with mine, how it would feel to have a warm body pressed against mine in the mornings after I wake up. some nights I read love poems and think about the way I’ve always hesitated to write one because I don’t know what it feels like to be so in love that anywhere is home when I’m with them, even when it’s 3 am and we’re stuck waiting for a delayed plane or when we’re eating uncooked instant noodles in our new apartment or when we’re calling each other from opposite sides of the world, separated by miles and miles of sky and space and distance. some nights I just think about writing and how I’d like to write an anthology of poetry about them. I’d call it ‘things you said’, and it would be part of every poem’s title. things you said at the kitchen table. things you said when you thought I was asleep. things you said before tipping my chin up to press your lips to mine. things you said while trying to find the coffee machine at seven in the morning. I think my favourite one would probably be ‘things you said you would never do for me but did them anyway’. but some nights, I think I’m just in love with the idea of love more than anything else.