I didn't realize food was a love language until I met you
.
Whenever I visited your apartment,
it smelled of butter melting, the oven running in the background
the faint waft of meat as it was being cut
When you laid out the plates on the small table,
you made sure that I always got the 'nicer' plate
always serving me the bigger piece first
.
We didn't talk much while eating
I was nervous around you, didn't know how to interest you
I kept sipping the red wine you had stocked up on
while you made small talk here and there
.
I remember we came back to the apartment one day
from a trashy party that we both didn't really want to go to
While I was getting ready for bed, drunk and tired,
you quickly cooked up 'scrambled eggs and tomatoes'
Neither you nor I grew up eating them
but for some reason, they reminded us both of home
And it hit me
that 'home' can feel right with the right person
.
It's been years since we parted ways
and yet, even now when I go to a supermarket
I still subconsciously pick up your favorite spices
I can still hear your voice softly remarking
"we shouldn't put too much salt"
or the way your nose scrunched and eyes lit up
when you were proud of the dish you made
.
As I grow older,
I realize now, that cooking for me was your way of showing
that you welcomed me in like family
and that you saw a future with me
through eating the dishes together that reminded you
of your own family
.
I hope you are doing well
and I hope you find your person
that will appreciate all the small gestures of love
and will never leave you wondering
if your love language is enough