Love Like It Used to Be

I want a love that feels like yesterday,

like old photographs tucked away,

edges worn from being held too much,

but still beautiful somehow.

A love that doesn't need an audience,

doesn't need a thousand pictures

or strangers knowing what we are.

Just you,

me,

and the quiet certainty

that we chose each other.

I want the kind of love

that waits by the window

when you're running late,

not because someone demanded it,

but because they simply care.

The kind where your name

is written at the back of a book,

beside little notes

you were never supposed to find.

Where a letter takes days to arrive

but somehow says more

than a hundred messages ever could.

I want to be loved

in handwritten sentences,

in terrible drawings,

in folded pieces of paper

slipped quietly into my bag.

“Thinking of you.”

Five simple words,

yet enough to make

an ordinary afternoon

feel like Christmas.

I want love without rushing.

The kind where we sit outside

after dinner,

listening to the night

and talking about absolutely nothing.

Where your hand finds mine

without asking permission,

and neither of us feels the need

to fill every silence.

I want Sunday mornings

with your sleepy voice,

two cups of tea,

and sunlight crawling slowly

across the curtains.

I want us to know

each other's favorite songs

without needing to ask.

I want you to remember

how I take my coffee,

the story behind my favorite necklace,

the name of the song

that makes me emotional

even when I pretend it doesn't.

I want the little things.

Your jacket around my shoulders

when the evening gets cold.

A kiss on my forehead

before you leave.

A “Did you get home safely?”

sent because you genuinely wondered.

I want a love

that doesn't disappear

when things become difficult.

A love that knows

we will have bad days,

misunderstandings,

long silences,

and moments when

we both need to breathe.

But instead of leaving,

we learn.

Instead of giving up,

we talk.

Instead of pretending

everything is perfect,

we choose to stay honest.

Maybe that's what

vintage love means to me.

Not simply flowers,

old records,

slow dances,

or letters tied with ribbons.

It's the patience.

It's choosing one person

even after the excitement

has settled into something quieter.

It's knowing that butterflies

may not always live in your stomach,

but there can still be warmth

when they walk through the door.

I want the kind of love

that grows old with us.

I want wrinkles beside your eyes

from all the laughing we've done.

I want gray hair

and stories we've told

a hundred times before.

I want us sitting together

on some old wooden porch,

arguing playfully

about who loved who first.

And when the world asks

how we lasted so long,

I want us to look at each other

and smile.

Because maybe the secret

was never perfection.

Maybe it was simply this:

We kept choosing.

You chose me

on ordinary mornings.

I chose you

on difficult nights.

And somewhere between

all the letters,

the laughter,

the apologies,

the quiet evenings,

and the years passing slowly,

we became

the kind of love

people write about

when they miss

the way love used to be.