A Belated Valentine's Day

To My Valentine,

 

I have absolutely no idea what love is.

I don't know what it looks like. 

I don't know what it feels like. 

I don't know what it sounds, smells, or tastes like.

 

I know that I've seen it.

I know that I've felt it.

I know that I've heard, smelled, and tasted it. 

 

I love love.

I miss it at times,

Pine, even.

 

I know a love.

I know the kind of love

That is born with me.

The kind of love

That gives rosy cheeks 

And my veins 

Their crimson pulse.

The kind of love 

That shows me what it looks like

To have my heart outside of me.

The kind of love 

That has context and generations.

The kind of love

That has my name.

 

I remember love,

Vaguely.

The kind without my name.

The kind of love

Which is found and fostered.

I remember how it filled me

With a proud rush 

Of a feeling that resembles home.

I remember how it kept me feeling fifteen.

I remember hearing colors,

Seeing music,

And thinking in iambic pentameter.

I remember knowing its finality.

I remember fearing its mortality.

I remember how the pieces faded

After it was broken.

 

That love, though,

Is a love I will never know again.

I'll never know its details as clearly

As I once did.

I will know its name.

I will know when it happened.

I will know

It came, I saw it, I loved it.

 

Each love is different,

Never to be replicated,

Never neat nor tidy,

Never what I think it will be,

So I cannot go searching for it.

 

I have loves 

That remind me of 

The kind of love

That I cannot remember.

I am so grateful for those loves.

They are as spontaneous,

Brief while everlasting,

And unattached.

They teach me 

How to love.

 

We don't need to know what love is.

I don't think there is an answer to that.

I just want to understand it.

Love is the kind of quality

That leaves me speechless.

Love is the kind of variety

That keeps me willing. 

 

I cannot wait to find it again.

I wonder what it will be like.

 

In perpetuity, your love,

Hannah

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