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100 Words on Love, by Alyssa Royse
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I remember the games of young love. Fake breaking up to see the size of heartache, gauge the depth of caring. “How sad would you be if I died?” Because love being so unique, how else will you know that they, you know, really do? Intensity of fighting and making up is the shadow by which you guess the size of the thing. Now I just trust it, though not without temptation. (I want to ask the hurtful hypothetical, I just don’t.) I am reading, I watch him sleep, he, in his sleep, reaches to touch me. And I know.
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Photo: Flickr/ i.am.rebecca