I’ve never been one for soppy romance. I balk at all the Nicholas Sparks books. I can’t keep quiet when watching a Rom-Com. They're filled with cliché meet-cutes, predictable misunderstanding and declarations of love.
That’s not to say that I don’t like love. I love love. I love love when it's stripped down to the bare essentials, when it comes to the quiet displays of care and attention. Now-a-days it’s all about being whisked away on surprise, jet-setting adventures by your billionaire boyfriend on your first date or waking up to a room filled with single-stem roses. Everyone forgets the warmth of coffee being placed in your hands wordlessly first thing in the morning because he knows you’re going to be grumpy and you need at least one sip to become human. There’s no Instagram post about the moments when you press the back of your hand against your lover’s forehead and neck and press your ear to their chest in worry over that cough they have. Although they aren’t flashy, those simple practicalities of life that, when practised together out of choice, day-in and day-out, are the strongest measurements of love known to man.
Sometimes, however, the cliches are true. Time slows down when we’re apart. The first week he was gone, I watched a clock intensely and I could swear his absence betrayed the laws of physics. Seconds were longer, minutes were agony, hours were torture. My heart was beating only for him and it craved his return like nothing else.
His return was like air being breathed back into my lifeless body. My mind returned, back to my quiet exuberance of love, felt wholly in each of his smiles, with each of his hugs and whispered hellos.
His lips were a salvation, like a long wished for prayer that finally was answered. It was the only religion I ascribed to and it would be the only faith I could ever want. I would worship at this altar for the rest of my life if he would let me.
In his arms, with his lips against mine, I was home.