Love Is In The Little Things

By Chaitra Ramalingegowda

Love is in the little things,

tracing her palm with a finger,

seeing her shiver with awareness;

brushing that stubborn lock of hair back from his forehead,

witnessing his eyes sliding shut as if in a trance;

lying down beside her on dewy grass,

looking up at the sunny blue, blue sky;

squeezing him when he comes out of the shower,

saying without words how much his presence means;

seeing her eyes light up when she talks of worlds of her own making,

which are as real to her as the world around her;

laughing with him at the silly jokes,

which make his eyes crinkle just so;

all the little things

that add up to a life well-lived,

a life well-loved.

Love is in the little things,

breathing in her perfume while hugging her,

listening to his steady heartbeat when he holds her;

removing her glasses when she falls asleep with a book on her chest,

covering him up with a blanket so his perpetually cold feet don’t freeze over;

holding her hand when walking, intertwining fingers singing their own symphony,

caressing the nape of his neck when he lays his weary head in her lap;

breathing in her residual scent on the pillowcase as he wakes up,

putting out a searching hand to trace the indent of his body on the bed;

inhaling the scent of her distinct shampoo in the foggy bathroom,

sniffing his shirt when he’s out on a work trip;

sitting in comfortable silence when words become superfluous,

talking without words, even from across a crowded ballroom;

all the little things

that add up to a life well-lived,

a life well-loved.

Love is in the little things,

all the things that make it a verb,

an action, an act of caring,

of choosing someone over and over,

of showing affection without inhibition,

of saying with words,

as much as without them,

of being there when you want to,

as much as when you don’t,

of being present in the now,

without distractions,

for love finds a reason,

in the bleakest of days,

and the sunniest of evenings,

and the darkest of nights,

to draw a life well-lived,

to color in a life well-loved.

By Chaitra Ramalingegowda