I would still love your hair that turned white.
It’s the proof that we’ve both grown through the years. Proof that one time sometime ago, we decided to be together, make things work for both of us because we love each other. Not a parasitic kind of love, but a mutualistic type where we both benefit and grow.
We’ve been perennially subjected to ups and downs, and the years already took their toll. Now we’re both having our white crowns and I am so happy that we’re both growing crowns of snow together.
I would still love your bulging belly.
There’s a reason why it is called a lover’s handle. And I want to hold you there. Don’t worry that it’s not flat anymore. I find nothing sexier in your body other than the womb inside that belly that bore my children.
I want to run my fingers on your womb and reminisce the moment when my sons were still inside meeting my touches. I remember when it was so taut and big, and I frequently planted a kiss on it. And I will always love that scar that still serves as a witness for your great love and courage.
I would still love your wrinkled hands.
Please don’t be ashamed of them because they already attained maximum friction, and that they would guarantee that my hand will never slip and that they would remain tightly grasped to yours.
I would always love the feeling of that hand on my fists; the way it equilibrated rage with a tranquil mind, violence with a loving touch, a heart that feels with physical and mental strength. The way that simple touch hushed the turbulence, the way it said I love you without the need for words.
We will get old. Our knees will eventually fail us. My hair may either be diminished or completely lost. Our joints will squeak.
But I will still love you even when rheumatism will be a daily cross to bear and when you will lose all your teeth and bite me with your gums.
Our age will be nothing more but mere digits. It’s the love and wrinkles that will make those years count.