I think love isn’t romantic.
I think love is separate from romance.
The two can intertwine.
But gestures of love run deeper.
They are wide, deep, rivers gushing forth during the darkest of days.
It’s not the crisp-new-designer-white-shirt, or the bunch of flowers.
It’s not the song you croon to, or the trip to Seychelles.
It’s not the perfect house, or siring your child.
I’ve realised love.
Is the simple act, of doing something ordinary.
That will lighten your day.
In a moment when I may not necessarily want to.
It might be letting go in a fight, taking pause between you vs. me. Right vs. wrong.
It might be keeping my shit off the dining table because you love a clean surface.
Or it might be a cup of chai.
With freshly grated ginger and the effort it takes.
There is nothing under the sun,
That would actually give you more delight.
Than something, which may be harder than other things, especially on the coldest of mornings when I really don’t want to get out of bed.
But that something done with a choice.
I love you.
On your toughest days.
And mine too.