I woke up …

I woke up from a dream where my hands were held close to another heartbeat, and I learned of love. I learned of the softness of skin and the early morning sun. Love is a small thing. It is whispered, it is an afterthought. Love is what comes in between. It’s what is lost on subway cars as people some walk in and others leave. Maybe even forever. It is the thing that you stepped on as you walked out of your apartment. It is the folded corner of a book, the music that you hum when no one else is listening. It is the pain that fresh flowers feel as they are torn from their roots. It is the layer after layer of rainbow cake that your mother makes or made you every birthday, even as you turn fifty. It is the scrunched up post-it, the sock without a match, the burned end of a cigarette. It is the unfinished story, a story where no one will know the ending. But yet it is the story written by a hundred million hands, holding each other in coffee shops or tucking that stray piece of hair. It is those hands that leave invisible oil paintings across a woman’s back. It is those scars, the bruises the next day. Love is the biting lip, the smile that grows in the half breath before the next ocean kiss. Love is the drumming of another person’s soul against your own. It is the music that you make with the world, the only language that everyone understands but no one remembers… It was a really good dream… Namaste…❤

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