There was a story, a poem, about love,
And my friend pinged and asked,
To prepare, and write something about love,
And I had nothing, for starting with,
For all the conventional love, the poems talk about,
I had never experienced before,

But I know another kind of love,
Not so much appreciated,
One which hugged the broken you,
Even when the pieces hurt their soul,
The love which has stayed,
Waiting by the side, accepting your decisions,
Each one of them,
the kind of love which asks you for your first prom date,
And the kind which just had one girl’s contact in their phone,
One of their first friends, and now hopefully one of the closest ones,

The kind of love which looks at you with so much respect,
And with so much awe, appreciating the tiniest of your details,

The kind of love which makes you feel a bit more complete,
Comfortable and somewhat more in love with you,
The abstract, in truest forms,
One who looks at you has seen you,
Through the worst of your phases, through highs,
The one love who looks at you,
In the mornings, with dishevelled hair,
Sleepy random clothes, and looks at you,
And tells you truly how you are their kind of pretty,
And the only kind of beautiful,
The one which kisses your forehead,
Yeah, receding hairlines don’t hurt that much

The kind of love which finds you in books,
The kind of love which finds you in their dreams, the last few memories together,
And the vineyard walks, Or in random strangers,
“I just helped a stranger reach the bus station,
The loss in her reminded me of - geographically challenged you,”

The love which looks at all your quirkiness,
The uncoordinated moves, the worst planned days,
And stranded in the cold, one which accepts you,
Whether eating that whole coffee paper cup, or
Sitting there in the middle of the road, eating your sandwiches,
the kind of love which accepts you,
Which appreciates you for making good chais, and
Also, the love, which won’t complain,
Slowly trying to chew the uncooked rice,
One which respects you more than they love you,
The which knows you in their rawest form,
The love, which appreciates and cherishes your strange,
And finds it cool somehow,
The kind of love which texts you, calls you,
Until you pick up their call,

The kind of love which smiles every time you meet,
which makes you like their new maple syrup tea,
The one with which you walk along the hills,
In snow-covered mountains, listening to the maple dipping from the trees,
The one which beliefs in your good, “you have an aura color of sunshine”,
And the kind which loves you, even when you cried and vomited over the floor,
Or crying your heart out, the kind of love which accepted the dreary you,
And cherished the last bit of left alone in you,
The kind of love which sees the hurt, the pain,
Still accepts you, chooses to be there for you!