Love

What would love look like? I think my love is blue. I think it is soft. I think my love is liquid, the way it flows from my heart. There is a small bit I can collect for myself. But mainly it spills from  me in a way that I cannot control. It radiates from my fingertips, feels warm in my palms. I feel my love everywhere, but mostly in the pit between my lungs. It is the same place depression sits. Maybe there is something to that which heals you coming from the same place as the problem. Like a vaccine. 

I keep waiting for love to come, I keep trusting that it will come. I can’t know when it will come or what shape it will take so all I can do is hold the teenage girl with puffy eyes and wet sleeves and try to let her know how much I love her. I can stroke the back of the little girl who slept in such a particular way that she left a dent in her mattress, comb the hair of the young woman who has carried that same ache in her ribs all her life. If there is no one else there I must do it myself. But god do I wish someone had been there.