To Be In Love

I rush, my feet barely brushing the ground,
my heart racing as I chase down the bus.
Squeezing through the doors, I find a seat,
settling into the last free place, beside an elder.
A soft greeting leaves my lips, a tired sigh follows,
and I sink into the seat, eyes shut, hoping to block out
the clatter of voices, the hum of wheels.
But then, a gentle glow pulls my gaze sideways—
an old man, staring lovingly at his phone screen.

Curiosity stirs; I can’t help but lean over.
On his screen, a woman’s face, etched in silver
and framed by a softness only time could sculpt.
Her eyes, twinkling, hold secrets and years.
She’s beautiful, in a way that feels familiar, warm,
like an old song that lingers in memory.
I’m caught, staring too long, lost in the image—
and his gentle laugh breaks my gaze.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” he asks, his voice rich with pride.

I nod, words lost, as he begins to speak,
calling her his wife, his heart of thirty-five years.
“But do you know what it means to be in love?” he asks.
I nod again, a sheepish smile, but he sees through me.
“Do you really know, or do you think you know?”
His question lingers, a silent echo in the noise.
I’ve never thought about it this way—
the difference between knowing and thinking,
between feeling and being.

“Love is many things, but with the right person,
it feels simple,” he says, his voice calm, certain.
“There’s always a pull, an attraction, like the tides,
an ache that draws you to them, time and again.”
His words settle over me, slow and sure,
a rhythm like the wheels rolling beneath us.
“To be in love is to know comfort and trust,
to feel safe showing your deepest fears,
and still be held with care.”

“It’s a focus,” he goes on, “a way of seeing—
where their kindness and strength light up everything,
and you hardly notice the flaws.”
I listen, a quiet calm blooming in my chest,
as he talks of empathy, of feeling what they feel,
and wanting to stand by them, in joy and sorrow.
“To see the world through their eyes,” he says,
“to understand their hurt, their joy,
and want nothing more than to ease the pain.”

“You’ll find yourself sacrificing little things,
and sometimes big things, too, without regret,”
he continues, his voice a soft murmur in the hum.
“Her happiness becomes yours, her smile your own.”
I wonder at his words, at the simplicity and depth,
as he speaks of a love that grows, shifts,
from the fire of newness to the warmth of trust—
a love that stays, that finds strength in challenges,
and faces each storm together, hand in hand.

“Love, real love,” he says with a far-off look,
“it changes you, shapes you, makes you better.”
His gaze is soft, distant, lost in memories.
“It’s more than moments or promises, son.
It’s a life, a journey, one you walk with someone
who makes even the hardest days feel lighter.”
He pauses, and I see the years in his eyes,
the weight of time, softened by joy, by devotion—
a love that speaks through silence.

“To be in love is like touching heaven,
a taste of something too perfect, too pure.”
His voice quiets, almost a whisper, as if sharing
a secret, a prayer, a hope.
“I wish this for you,” he says, his eyes warm, kind,
“to find that one, to hold and be held,
to love and be loved, in this way.”
His words settle into my chest, a weight, a longing,
a sense of something I’m only beginning to understand.

The bus slows, his stop is near. He stands,
touches my shoulder with a gentle pat.
“I’m going home to my angel,” he says, smiling,
“Her smile will wash away the day’s tiredness.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd,
leaving behind a quiet in his wake, a calm in me.
I sit, staring at the empty seat, his words echoing,
my heart light, my mind full of wonder,
suddenly wishing to know what it means—to be in love.