Convergence
Your love is loud. Spelled out in big, bold letters that you underline twice in glitter and highlighter. The elephant in the room, something you can't possibly miss or go by without addressing.
My love is quiet. A scribble on the last page of a notebook, buried beneath rematches of zero kaata. Like a mouse in a kitchen sneaking away cheese and hoping to get away with it.
Your love is an obvious red rose and big, red, beating hearts that you send with freedom.
My love is the chocolate I share with you under the pretense that I did not get this specially for you. It's that one emoji that I know I only ever send to you and no one else.
It's in the songs with love declarations and cheesy promises, with music videos that scream of cliches.
It's in the playlist I made with all the songs you keep on singing, and only telling you weeks later about it.
It's the sure intervining of your fingers with mine, like that's what they were supposed to do all this time anyway.
It's the brush of my hand against your sleeve in the hopes that you understand that I want to be close to you.
It's slow motion video editing and reverbed background music.
The screen recordings I keep when I'm running low on storage, deleting my videos so I can keep yours.
It's the way you bring me closer, looking deep within my eyes like you don't want to be looking anywhere else.
It's the way I caress the zipper on your jacket, standing on tip toes so you can rest your forehead on mine.
The well known movie dialogues that you mimic with sincerity.
This prose I'm writing that I'm secretly hoping to send you some time into the future.
And I think it's bright, and warm, and playful, and totally obvious, just like you.
And I think it's pastel, and mellow, and cautious, and mostly hidden, completely unlike me.











