Love: Microfiction

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To understand what you mean to me you need to first understand what life means to a person who knows he is going to die soon!

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Metro Diaries: The Art of Making Love

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Image Source: Unpexels (Cottonbro) “Do you know why is it called making love?” He whispered, pulling the comforter closer.  I don’t remember for how long we had been in that room, on that bed. Lying aimlessly, just feeling each other in silence. I managed to just whimper to denote my curiosity.   “Because that is the moment we create love. We are the closest we could ever be to love, in its purest form. It is sheer magic as we are naked, in every form. Mentally, physically and emotionally before that one person, we love. We know they can hurt us, as much as they want to, in the way they want to. But love gives us that power to trust them, that they won’t.”   “And here I was thinking it is a need. Something you want at that moment and you get it!” 
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What is love?

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The moment I hear the question what is love? My answer always is this. Love is.  Those two words hold the entire meaning of love for me. When I was asked to write about my own version of love, my mind instantly ran to the nearest rescue I could find – music. For me, love is music, a song that your heart dances to and a rhythm that has the capacity to capture your soul. Love is the language of the universe, the one in which one soul converses with the other. 
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