Because every time I have looked at you, and every time I have held your hand, I have given you a part of me. I have given you a untranslatable poem from the heart. Paintings have been lightly drawn between the spaces of our intertwined fingers and sweaty palms. And when I first kissed you, I had sung you a song strummed along to the rhythms of my heart.
Little do you know, the first and only time you kissed me, you left a cryptic message on my lips that I would spend the rest of my life understanding. The first time you held my hand, there was a string of melodic notes exchanging between our fingers, roaming so freely, jumping from the tips of your fingers to mine. And the first time you had opened up to me, I found a piece of your soul in me, and I found a piece of my soul in you. It was only then I learned what it meant to be whole. All of it is filled with wonder, filled with emotions that I could never convert into words that could try and come close to what I feel within. It is not love that I feel. It is not belonging, and it is most certainly not lust.
It’s beauty. It’s the art of loving.