This Is What Love Means To Me


I woke up to the sound of rain falling from the early morning sky. It was cold, and naturally I held on to the thin, comfy blanket that my love covered me with as I snored myself to sleep last night. I turned to her and kissed her cheeks. She slept soundly, and I smiled.

“Hey,” I whispered to her. “It’s 10 o’clock. Are you getting up anytime soon?”
She just nodded, and hugged her pillow tighter. I laughed a little to myself. I gave her a kiss on her lips and stood up. The cool breeze greeted me as I made my way to the kitchen. It was time to make coffee.

I enjoy making coffee early in the morning. I find it quite therapeutic to start my day with a routine that I appreciate doing. It was the precision of the morning ritual that I like. I took a cup from the holder and placed it in the table. I then took the kettle, filled it with water, and placed it on the stove. As I sat there, waiting for the water to boil, I realized something.

We are often asked to compare love to something concrete, something tangible. If you are to explain love in a manner simpler than kissing in front of the Eiffel, or watching the Aurora from above, how would you do it?

Love, for me, is a cup of coffee.

It is bittersweet, and it makes you feel real. It wakes your senses as you realize you have been sleeping for God knows how long. Sweet enough to give you energy, bitter enough to calm you down. It completes your morning, and can keep you up late at night. It’s the warmth you want to feel on a rainy day, and the much needed boost on a slow weekday in May. It is not something you just pour in a cup and drink. You have to stir it, constantly. That way, you know the ingredients would mix well together. You let it sit around for a couple of minutes, trying to feel when the right time is to drink. But be careful, as always. If it is too hot, it might burn your tongue. Too cold, and the appeal is gone. Sometimes, when we taste it with a spoon, or feel it through the mug, the heat betrays us. But one should never be afraid to taste, or feel, again. The flavor is worth the wait, and the courage.

As I finish making the coffee, I like to pass the time by looking at her as she sleeps still. What is she dreaming of, I would often ask. I hope it’s me, or something better.

I stirred the coffee with a teaspoon and stared at the clouds of cream mixing with the dark. I was eight when I last drank my own cup of coffee. I enjoy making cups for others, though.

I woke her up after an hour or so. I walked her to the kitchen in a gentle embrace. We sat beside each other and exchange good mornings.

“Take a sip,” she said.

And that, I did.

I could feel a familiar warmth underneath my skin, and it made me smile. She used to tease me how I was her coffee, mostly because of my complexion.

Little did she know, she was mine.