A Magic Called Love

“Nothing prepared me for the privilege of being yours.”

Today, while walking beneath a sky
painted in the softest shades of blue,
I wondered—

When did love become something
we were expected to plan?

When did it become a little box
on the long, serious list of adulthood—
between building a career,
paying bills,
and knowing exactly where life is going?

When did finding someone
stop feeling like a miracle
and start feeling like a deadline?

When did we become so careful
with the most beautiful thing inside us?

When did we begin asking
if love was practical,
if it was mutual,
if it had potential,
if it could survive the future
before allowing it to bloom in the present?

I want love to be softer than that.

I want it to be the surprise
of finding someone’s eyes
already searching for mine
across a crowded room.

I want shy smiles
that linger a little too long,
hands brushing accidentally
and remembering the feeling
for the rest of the day.

I want flowers without an occasion,
letters written imperfectly but honestly,
and midnight conversations
that make morning arrive too soon.

I want someone to remember
the tiny things I never thought mattered—
the song I hum when I am happy,
the way I look at the moon,
the stories I tell when I am nervous,
the dreams I hide
because they feel too beautiful to say aloud.

I want love to feel like
being chosen in a room full of people.

Like a secret garden
opening somewhere inside the chest.

Like coming home
and discovering that home
has learned your name.

Perhaps love was never meant
to be negotiated into existence.

Perhaps it was meant to bloom
wildly and without permission—
in the spaces between conversations,
in the tenderness of ordinary days,
in the quiet certainty
of wanting to tell one person everything.

Perhaps it does not need
to be perfect, healed, evolved,
or carefully understood
before it is allowed to be real.

Perhaps it is allowed
to be foolish and fluttering,
a little clumsy,
a little dramatic,
full of impossible hope
and handwritten wishes.

Perhaps it is allowed
to make us blush at our own thoughts,
to make the sky more beautiful
for no logical reason,
to make a familiar song
feel as though it was written
for the two of us.

And if it does not stay—
if it becomes a season,
a chapter,
a name we whisper only to ourselves—
does that make it any less magical?

No.

Some loves are not meant
to become a lifetime.

Some are meant to arrive
like the first star of evening,
to show us that even the darkness
can be beautiful.

Some come only to remind us
that our hearts were never made
for spreadsheets and schedules,
but for wonder.

So I do not want a love
that is merely convenient.

I do not want one
approved by logic, timing,
or the careful calculations
of a grown-up world.

I want the kind of love
that makes the girl inside me
lift her face to the sky
and believe that the universe
has been writing a secret love letter
with my name on it.

I want love to be felt
before it is explained.

Held before it is defined.

Lived before it is measured.

Because perhaps love was never meant
to be another thing we accomplish.

Perhaps it was always meant
to be the beautiful, impossible feeling
that finds us unprepared—

and makes life
feel like a little more than life.