. . .
love
   . . .


Love is the tingle that you get, in the pit of your belly, that you don't recognize, but crave when you go home; when you see a little boy playing on the swings, that you suddenly need to get to know; when you want to reach out so you throw little barbs and hope he'll notice; and you're really hoping he smiles and keeps the roses.

Love is when you don't know what to say to the boy sitting next to you, so you offer him a piece of gum and make talk about the weather; you smile and wave in the halls - just a little jerk of the hand, not too big, not too tender - he's only a friend when your friends are suggesting; he's your only friend, when you aren't pretending

Love is when you sneak kisses when no one's looking, share notes and compare scars; when you tell a boy everything that you kept secret, and hope he'll love who you really are; when you give him your heart and hope he does the same, so he won't break it; it drives you insane.

Love is when you realize the world's not pretty; it can get mean and it can get gritty; so you hold him tighter than you'd ever dared; you've stopped caring if anyone cares; you're putting your heart on the line for a boy and you're risking the foundation of who you are; you're basing your building and life off this boy, and you're hoping he's down for the part.

Love is when it's not a fairy tale, and it's not what you expected; it's not the dream you'd always wanted, but you're grateful that you get it; you learn to love the little things, like the crinkle of his eyes; you want more than anything to make him smile, and you cry if he cries.

Love is when you can't stop, because you recognize the magic; you can't give up the chance, you know you have to grab it; when you chase something and everyone tells you to stop, and you run faster so they can't keep up; you're drowning out voices with high-pitched love songs, you're convincing yourself that it's right and it's not wrong; even if he doesn't turn around, you won't stop following until you fall down.

Love is when you're a thousand miles away and you still recognize the sound of his laughter; ; when you're dreaming of the mornings and mornings and mornings long after; when it's not the love-making it's the making of love; when it's not just pieces but all of the above.


   . . .
is  beautiful reciprocated or not
   . . .