When do we call it Love?

At which point do we call it love?

What is the final turning point that makes us admit that maybe it’s more than a temporary attraction?

I think that every person could come up with a different answer-- a specific moment that would do it for them. An ideal action, or look, or a candlelit dinner where everything seems just right.

In reality, it will never be that perfect. You‘ll burn yourself on the candle. The roses will be slightly crumpled. They’ll be late to dinner. You’ll disagree over something small.

Love is never ideal.
Love is never convenient.

Doesn’t that make it so much more breathtaking?

So much more beautiful.

Because there was a candle, and maybe they kissed your finger where it stung. Maybe not. And there were roses. There was a dinner for them to be late to. They weren’t afraid to tell you they disagreed.

What in this world is perfect? Can you name any one thing? And who’s to say love is an exception?

But it is that imperfectness that makes it so right, so relatable and so desirable.

And the thing about it is that everyone tries to assign a definition to it, to describe it just right. I think the whole point is that there is no definition. We make our own definition. If love was a list of forty-nine things to be checked off, it would be so much easier. So much more formulaic. So easily definable.

But it’s not.

If there were a list of forty-nine things that we were going to pin on love, the real thing would be the fiftieth, unmentioned thing.

And that’s that. Love is what you want it to be. What you need it to be. Screw the list. There is no list. Let’s burn it over our shitty candlelit dinner, with our crumpled roses. And maybe sparks will fly off of the paper and light the house on fire and we’ll stand outside and watch it burn together, our eyes painted bright oranges and yellows.

Watch the textbook definition of love be reduced to ashes and smoke.

And pick up the scraps and rearrange them in a way so that we’ll fit just right. And it won’t be perfect, or even close.

But it’ll be right. And it’ll be love.

Even if we don’t label it that.

And so I ask you,

At which point do we call it love?