When I think about love, I know it as the rubix cube I cannot fix. It is the puzzle I swear am done with but still find a way of going back to it like my own vomit. Love has been Blue. I wouldn’t say love has been exactly romantic because every time I have swept my love under a rug, I trip over it.
Growing up I could easily identify love as Purple, as my father’s strong arms and potbelly, and my mom with her skin-tight braid. I knew love as me blowing air on my father’s tummy, and mother holding me firmly between her laps as she wove wool into my hair. It was the fights between siblings resolved with a hand full of Chocolate offered in peace offering without sorry been said. I wouldn’t say love was a colour but it reminded me of Orange and just how it wasn’t so sweet neither was it bitter.
I do not know when the complexity starts to kick in; like mathematics it was no longer one plus one but the puzzling act of finding x with x right there on the board. Love was my high-school crush and paper full pages of poems I never did send. It was the Green marker cancelling a heart symbol drawn in Pink. Love was the boy who wore an oversized Amber sweater and the cutest smile; it was the boy who was willing to sit with me in children’s service and pride himself as my boyfriend. Love always plucked a Taffy flower and on other days mango from the church tree. Love was a sweet Lemonade green and I would always shimmy shiver he chose me.
Love soon became a girl who hurried me to class. She was a winged chariot whose voice was as melodious as the birds; a friend who never forgot a birthday and never had to use Facebook to remember. Love became our favorite color, Pink, it became us dancing through a garden full of Lilacs and Roses. It has been friendship, a head, a body I could rely on when my spines became weary. It was the Tuscan sun, a room of two voices that spilled out like Bumblebee.
Then Love has been you, a puddle of water I have to beg to drink from. It has been me singing with a sore throat and your lips were Mint bottled. Love was me hugging the Mocha teddy bear you gave me when you swore you would never leave me but you did. Maybe this is it, maybe I was the sun, and love was the Sky-blue moon. Maybe we just couldn’t meet. Sometimes love was a cobalt or Azure blue, I didn’t know what to do when it came to loosing you.
Maybe love was an Arctic Berg and I never really did see it until we crashed.
Yes, love was the crow voiced raven, it was a tint of Pitch-black.
Then love became a voice, a spoken word saying:
You are beautiful.
Love became the Silver linings beneath a sentence, a quote, a favorite catch phrase, it was those I circled with a Wine or Magenta marker depending on which was on my scattered bed full of Caramel mixed chocolate chips.
Love was a slow walk to my salvation.
One should know that love may never happen, for some it might last for a lifetime, while for others it just might be ten years after a terrible divorce, but know this, love will happen no matter how, no matter the shade it takes like a night full of intense passion of two combined bodies under the disco light and a room curtained with Ivory and a bed of Pearl sheets.
It is the form of a child birthed in a hospital room painted in Mulberry and sheets of Lavender.
Love again is you, choosing to live, to breathe, to watch the sunset like a ball of fire and also knowing you are the rainbow.