What Is Love, Really?

 They say they love love.

They say it like it’s sunlight,warm, effortless, obvious.

Like it’s laughter that spills without permission.

Like it’s butterflies that never die.


I hear them, and I wonder if we are speaking the same language.


Because love, to me, has never felt light.

Love feels like standing barefoot on sacred ground,

aware that every step could awaken something buried.

Love feels like a hand gently touching scars you forgot you had,

not to hurt you,

but to remind you they’re still healing.


People say they love love.

But love terrifies me.


It terrifies me because love is not a feeling you visit;

it is a door you walk through

and it locks behind you.


Love demands things.

Not flowers or poems or pretty words,

those are just decorations on its altar.

Love demands strength:

the kind that keeps showing up when your pride wants to leave.


Love demands humility:

the kind that sits you down and says,

“Look at yourself. Not the version you perform. The real one.”


Love demands courage:

to release the armor that once saved you

but now keeps you from being held.


And faith,

oh, love requires faith.

Faith that you are safe.

Faith that softness will not be punished.

Faith that this time, your heart will not be mishandled like fragile glass.


So when people say they love love,

I nod politely,

but inside I am asking:


What do you mean by love?


Is it the butterflies?

Or the silence after an argument when two people choose each other again?


Is it the laughter?

Or the tears wiped away without being asked?


Is it the thrill?

Or the cross, the staying, the forgiving, the bleeding, the hoping anyway?


How do you know it’s love

and not loneliness wearing perfume?

How do you know it’s love

and not desire dressed as destiny?

How do you know it’s love

and not pressure disguised as passion?


Maybe love is not one emotion.

Maybe that’s where we’ve gone wrong,

trying to trap it inside a single feeling

like catching lightning in a jar.


Maybe love is not always a high note.

Maybe sometimes it is the trembling inhale before you sing.


Maybe love is not always fireworks.

Maybe sometimes it is a candle that refuses to go out.


And maybe,

just maybe,

love is not something you feel first.


Maybe it’s something you learn.


Learn in patience.

Learn in surrender.

Learn in unlearning the versions of yourself that survived but never lived.


So I am not someone who says, “I love love.”

Not yet.


I am someone who stands at its door,

heart pounding,

hand shaking,

whispering…..


Teach me what you really are.


_Oly

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