Love

Love takes on a different form for everyone.

For some it's the way that person kisses their hand

before their lips.

For others it's the way they slam the door at 2 a.m.

only to be back by seven,

apology in hand,

alcohol and regret apparent in their breath.

For me love is your hesitation.

The way your calloused hands pause before sliding down my waist to my hips...

then even more slowly below my jeans.

Love to me is the pack of menthol cigarettes on your table

and the stuffed animal puppy on your dresser.

It's the way your lips mouth

"I love you"

against mine,

so gently.

Sometimes too gently,

where I have to tell you how much I want you.

But I love that too.

For me love is

the bottles of vodka

that are placed so perfectly on display,

proud of your kryptonite.

Love to me is your voice

telling me to be careful,

asking if I'm okay,

telling me it'll be okay.

That voice,

your voice is love.

So are your fingers,

interlaced with mine,

letting me know,

so casually,

you're there for me.

Love appears in different forms to people.

It appeared to me as you.

And remains as us.