When I was 7, I knew exactly what Love looked like.
I knew Love had blond hair, blue eyes cute freckles and a crooked smile.
Love was the fastest boy at recess. He would push me on the swing set so that my feet flew and touched the cotton wool clouds. He shared his snacks with me because well, 7 year olds are gentlemen like that and I knew that we were meant to be.
Until we weren’t.
Because 7 year olds grow and change and from one day to the next they are no longer the same.
Love now had brown hair, and brown eyes so dark and rich I melted into them like chocolate between fingertips on a warm summer day. We read books together like the true intellectual 7 year olds we were and bonded over stories about cats in hats? It wasn’t the world’s most groundbreaking love story but it was our love story and that was good enough for our little hearts.
But that love faded away too.
I, in turn, grew and changed and moved away. I juggled languages with sports and friendships and hell the struggles of being a teenage girl ! that I didn’t even stop to think about where Love had gone. I figured I would see him in the hallway at some point maybe but he was definitely around somewhere! We were probably just taking different classes and had slightly different interests… But I knew I’d run into him eventually!
It took me 4 years to come across Love again. I hardly recognised him at first— he had the same dark eyes, but this time his skin was the colour of the coffee my dad drinks every morning. His jawline was sharper than any knife in my kitchen and his cheekbones were higher up on his face. His dark eyebrows grew wildly across his forehead but his grin was unmistakable.
Love had grown at least a foot since the last time I’d seen him. He was an athlete, except instead of running at recess he now ran sprints for the athletics team. Love’s love for books hadn’t changed either but he’d replaced the stories of hungry caterpillars for novels, and plays, and poetry.
It was when Love made the same joke and I heard him laugh the same laugh that I realised Love didn’t come in a fixed package. Love was not something you ordered online that came delivered with a pretty ribbon at your doorstep a dress you could try on and send back if the fit wasn’t right. Love doesn’t have a religion a nationality a sexuality.
Love is someone who listens when you tell them about your day even on the worst of days not necessarily to give you advice or because what you have to say is particularly exciting but just because they want to know.
Love is someone who you can talk to at any time of the day the person at the other end of the phone at 3AM when you need to cry because everything is wrong but also the person who will take you to the park at on a Sunday afternoon when the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping and your worries are wrapped in a soap bubble and gone with a gust of wind.
Love always thinks you look beautiful. Love likes your hair both up and down thinks you look great in that bikini that your makeup looks good today but that you could also do without it. Love thinks you’re prettiest when you’re smiling but that’s not to say you’re not pretty when you cry.
Love is not always the person you would expect. But do not judge Love for the body it comes in. Judge Love for their taste in socks and Disney movies and candy bars and sports teams. For their opinions on politics and peanut butter the importance of family and the new Snapchat update.
These little quirks which define Love are what will decide whether you are meant to be. NOT the body you encounter them in.
Although I'm straight, I felt it was important to write about the importance of accepting all kinds of love; whether it be different sexualities, religions, or nationalities. Hope you enjoy x
(side note: this was inspired by the slam poem "When Love Arrives" by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye. Thought I should just give them credit for their beautiful poem :) )