by Julia Zygiel ’19
In the soft dew of morning’s twilight, when birds and beetles silently meditate for a fraction of a second, I love you. In the subtle crinkle of your not-yet-crow’s feet winking at me, and the scent of your honeyed lip balm when you knight my nose with a kiss, I love you. With the smile of a joke hidden behind hands, the flash of teeth at a clever line, you pull me deeper in. My hair feathers against your shoulder, your elbow nudges my ribcage as you reposition yourself in the way that you love me. Nightly routines that root our love deeper in the soil.
We’ll say it was winter when we first uttered, “I love you,” but the first time I felt it was months before. The sunlight made your eyes look like glowing, melting gold and they filled my heart with molten affection. Now, it’s fingers entwined, wrists cradled to chests and chins and cheeks cupped in palms. All we are is a series of movements, tenderness given organs and skin and life. Love incarnate.