So much of love is waiting.

You wait to see each other. To speak, to hear. To touch, to taste. To push forward, then pull back.

You wait for new discoveries, for things in common, and things that may tear you apart.

You wait for the unsaid to swim to the surface. For the revealed to be set in stone, and forever leave marks on your soul.

You wait to begin, to move forward. To step back, to fall into complacency.

You wait for familiarity to breed contempt. Then you wait to prove it all wrong.

You wait to connect. You wait to be distant. To give each other breathing space, the opportunity to miss and be missed.

You wait to see if the laughter lights up his eyes or lurks in the shadows. You wait to see if you can tell where she’s been by the way she tilts her head.

You wait to announce your love to the world and then you wait to see if anyone has noticed.

You wait for windows to open. For the curtains to be drawn, for the lights to be turned on, and then turned out.

You wait and wait and wait some more. Then one day you give up waiting. Because you would much rather yearn. And pine and long and ache and crave.

So much of love is waiting.

When it should really be all about the yearning.