I’ve always wondered if I know love.

I know
stomachs hurting from laughter, a mother’s perfume dabbed wrist to wrist and behind the ears, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon filling a house, shared lip gloss swiped on my lips and hers, a kiss on the forehead and the nose and then both cheeks, grass-stained jeans and the scent of chlorine from days I wish I remembered,
dancing and jumping and laughing
and breathing

I know
bruised knees and scabby elbows, runny mascara and smeared lipstick, broken glass and angry whispers, hiding under the covers, sitting with the lights off, chipped nail polish and picked-at hangnails and sad songs on repeat,
yelling and hurting and crying
and breathing

I know
the feeling of when you’ve inhaled deeper than you thought you could, when your chest hurts and you think your sternum might just crack in half if you don’t exhale right now. And then you do exhale, and you’re hit with a relief you didn’t know you could feel.
I know that love is in the sighs and the gasps, in the snorts and gentle inhales, in the shortness of breath and the calmness after.
It is in the pain and the peace. The noise and the silence.
The happy and the sad.

Love is in everything.
I know that much.