It’s a love language built from quiet conspiracies, keeping someone’s bookmark but returning their books, fingers intertwined while glaring at a painting of Mount Etna in some forgotten gallery in the south of Wales, slipping folded notes into the spine of a John le Carré novel.
It’s leaving a pressed wildflower between borrowed pages and saying nothing, standing shoulder to shoulder on a night railway platform until the last train pulls away and your hands finally find each other, softly debating which café chair has the better view and trading places halfway through. It’s sharing music on a tiny USB drive instead of a link, tracing secret shapes on each other’s palms while pretending to study a museum map, leaving cryptic sticky notes on coffee cups, walking an unfamiliar city under one half-soaked umbrella. It’s mapping constellations with your fingertip on their wrist beneath a quiet sky, tucking a single printed photograph into the lining of their coat. A romance stitched together from subtle gestures to intellectual banter; cinematic, a little secret, a little tender. The kind that speaks in code only the two of you understand.
It’s the kinda love that prefers whispers to announcements, finding each other in margins, on stairwells, at the edges of maps. It collects fragments; the smell of an old bookshop, the sound of a pencil scratching an underlined sentence meant only for one pair of eyes, the soft brush of shoulders in a crowded gallery. It hides in plain sight, patient and unassuming, yet magnetic in the way it builds a private world two people can step into whenever life feels too loud. That knows grand gestures aren’t the only way to be unforgettable. It lingers in tiny, deliberate acts - the pressed flower, the shared seat, the secret note, the quiet rebellion of being fully seen without needing to perform.
It’s the kinda love that prefers whispers to announcements, finding each other in margins, on stairwells, at the edges of maps. It collects fragments; the smell of an old bookshop, the sound of a pencil scratching an underlined sentence meant only for one pair of eyes, the soft brush of shoulders in a crowded gallery. It hides in plain sight, patient and unassuming, yet magnetic in the way it builds a private world two people can step into whenever life feels too loud. That knows grand gestures aren’t the only way to be unforgettable. It lingers in tiny, deliberate acts - the pressed flower, the shared seat, the secret note, the quiet rebellion of being fully seen without needing to perform.
It’s the soft kisses you land on my shoulders, and the tip of my collarbone while I read aloud my favourite lines from one of the Brontë sisters’ books (forgive my lovelorn-ness I don’t remember which one) lingering over an almost burnt cappuccino in the corner nook at that hazy café right off of Rue Lepic.
It speaks in codes only the two of you understand, a language built from tenderness and wit, from small acts that feel bigger than declarations.
You know, your private notes in cipher? (:
*sighs in sarcasm, yea whatever
Comments
Post a Comment