His love

Kind of a lame and cheesy sentimental poem, but hell, i was feelin it.

Maybe his love isn’t a run-to-the-other-side-of-the-street-defying-death-in-a-New-York-City-traffic-jam-for-one-last-kiss kinda love

And it definitely isn’t a come-home-late-from-work-to-find-him-running-me-a-bath-adorned-with-candles-and-rose-petals kinda love

And it isn't a whisk-a-curl-from-my-hair-away-from-my-face-on-a-chilly-autumn-evening-only-to-linger-his-gaze-deeply-on-me-and-then-kiss-me kinda love.

But.

His love was a kiss-me-on-my-forehead-when-I-was-spewing-snot-and-sneezing-germs kinda love.

A holding-me-silently-as-I-braced-for-sadness-to-wash-over-me kinda love.

A laughing-politely-at-my-childlike-squealing-and-loud-antics kinda love.

A pausing-the-movie-playing-on-my-laptop-for-a-making-out-break kinda love.

And it was enough.

Untitled

My grandmother mentioned
In passing
The softness of her late teenage son's hair
My mother's brother
Casually.

And I ponder on their pain
And their humanity
And the rawness I did not see them experience.
Somewhere between dinner and dessert
I ache to look at them and say:
"You brought me here. How can I make you happier? How can I ease the sorrow of your memories?"

But I fear the question is laughable
Or irrelevant
Or too late
So I don't say anything.

And I panic about the time.