Whenever I am alone with you/
You make me feel like I am fun again
– Love Song, The Cure
Maybe love will look like this: wrinkles and laughter.
Maybe it will look like an old bedroom and worn out memories and long silences but, from time to time, a meaningful look and a smile. An unspeakable knowing of one another that is real and good and true. Peals of laughter and the never-ending permission to be silly.
Maybe love will look like friendship, worn out over time with familiarity. Maybe it will look like repeated conversations and moments that get old and a quiet voice wondering if this is it, if this is everything.
And maybe it is.
Maybe it is glorious this way, in its predictability.
Maybe it’ll feel like love has grown stale when, in fact, love is just happy to not put on a show anymore. Maybe love, true love, can handle the mundane, can revel in it.
And maybe patience will make love new again, will turn old corners, will flip the script so that love shines again, somehow, enough to make room for the gift of awe.