On Loving

Love as defined by most feels weak and inept. I only know love that comes with sacrifice.

Love is my father quietly declining a job offer that could have changed his life because he didn’t want to interrupt my studies in a school where I was thriving.

Love is my mother leaving us behind to care for her own mother thousands of miles away.

Love is willingly becoming undocumented so as to not displace your children and cause chaos in their development.

Love is a doctorate traded in for manual labor to put food on the table.

Love is surviving in a country that despises you.

Love is sacrificial and the most excruciating part of being a human.

Love was watching her walk away, still having dreams of her years later, remembering how her smile jolted me to my core and sent me soaring.

Love comes with a promise of tenderness and luscious melancholy. This is how I love you, knowing one day I will mourn you.

You ask me why I won’t go out and find other loves, and I cannot find the words to tell you that when I say love, I mean I would dethrone god himself for your sake. I go easy on love and ride the waves of short-lived desires intentionally.

If I should ever love others the ways in which I love you, I’m afraid I might set myself on fire.