Love resides in the small things, the little details. In the bend of an elbow. The surprise vulnerability of a delicate wrist. In the curiously unique pigmentation of iris. In the musicality of word and voice. It resides in the quirks of square palms and bitten nails. It is a hidden in the folds of a shirt or velvety softness of a neck. And in an accidental upturned collar.
Love delights in the gradual revelation of the beloved. It seduces with sudden illumination: the previously familiar and known suddenly become a vehicle of piercing beauty; reminding of how much there is yet to uncover and of how much there is to be grateful for. The years of knowing and discovering become nothing; the future beckoning with promise of that which is yet to be revealed.
Just when I think ‘I know’, I realise that I don’t. That love is indefinable. No pinned butterfly in the collector’s case. Offering no explanations, giving no surety of return, promising nothing.
Rather it revels in unknowingness and demands unconditional surrender. It is the mystery in all of us. Rightfully evading our measure and yet having the full measure of us.