There's always been a certain notion on love,

that it's excitement, passion, flame, 

that I should be over the moon, set from above. 

that I should be consumed by butterflies. 

but what if the love is quiet.

on the days where I can't stand but stare at a wall,

what if he sits near me, saying nothing at all.

how about the days where I hate how I look,

So he brushes my hair,

commenting on the gold and read that streaks the brown,

as he counts every freckle, whipping away my frown.

Remarking on the blush that creeps my skin,

because of how he traces my skin, saying

the way my body curves and how lovely he finds it,

what if the love is a glance at one another,

while you read a book. 

A small tease when you say a word wrong,

what if love isn't something that burns a flame,

what if it's the silent patter of rain. 

Something that settles that chaos in your brain.