the discovery of love comes in fits and starts,
beginning with open arms and lullabies
and the things you hope you’ll always hold trust in.

next you discover sleepovers and nights spent talking
about the things you can’t tell anyone else,
the kind of love you hope will last a lifetime.

when you’re older and you meet someone you could talk to for hours,
your first kiss beneath the orange glow of streetlamps,
you think you’ve found it again.

when someone else takes you in their arms,
and you look at the forest when you should look at the trees,
you can confidently say that this is love
until time keeps passing and your future grows nearer,
and suddenly you see someone else in it.

rings that are pre-infinite, plans that seem pre-destined,
the person whose hands you’d rest your life in.

sometimes you hit a snag, but the detour
is all a part of the journey –
familiar sights seen through fresh eyes,
a broadening of your definitions, your boundaries,
a glimpse
at the whole You.

and now there’s another question-riddled entry
under “love,”
with scribbles in the margins saying it should always feel this good.

i love myself more because you show me the parts that are loveable.
maybe that’s the way it should be.
                                                             ­   maybe
                                                        ­                      that’s the final entry.