A word more powerful than nearly any other. A word more overused and tainted, heartfelt, believed… and unknown.
A feeling that reaches beyond the body, beyond the soul, beyond anything tangible. That can only come close to being described in poetry, yet even the greatest of poets could not truly define it regardless of the heights they attempted to make it fly in its glory nor the unfathomable depths of the anguish it has caused so that another could grasp the way it held their heart.
When I look in her eyes I feel what I think it is – is this all it needs to be honestly said? Is it that simple? No. The word itself is little but a reassurance, something that we think we need to hear to minimize our insecurities or those of another. It has been soiled, misused, and the honesty and weight it once carried been chipped away by all the sharp tongues that have spoken it, made inaudible by all the desperate ears that have pried it out of voices without hearts.
I feel that it should be said, but only at times when it cannot be held back. When it is not thought about nor spoken only to echo, but when it bursts from the heart in a way that cannot be contained.
It should be shown, displayed, made solid through the way life is lived, how suddenly each thought is never again solely about you. Inhaled and exhaled in every breath, each act created with the intention to bring happiness in the other, just to see the sparkle in their smile.
I don’t like the word “love”. Not the word. Not as used when I say it to her.
It is far too insignificant. Speaking it cannot come near comparison to what I want to do for her.
When I tell her of my love, it will not be empty. It will be saturated, dripping, with all the beauty and honesty and power of the poetry that I or anyone else has – or ever will feel – inside.