“Making Love, Every Day”
There are a thousand ways to make love. A thousand ways to give ourselves, to touch, to say “I love you” without uttering a word. And yet, we so often reduce this act to a mere exchange of bodies, as if love were only a fire that ignites in the dark — then fades with the morning light. But true love begins long before that. It begins in shared silences, in simple gestures, in the smallest moments that say the most.
Making love is the morning gaze — the look we give each other before the world wakes, when eyelids flutter open and a smile forms, still sleepy, still bare. It’s a hand brushing an arm, a kiss stolen on the temple, a whispered “good morning” like a quiet prayer. It’s bringing coffee to bed, not out of duty, but desire — because you thought of them before you even thought of yourself. It’s singing an old love song off-key, awkwardly, eyes locked on theirs, just to see them smile, just to hear their laugh.
Making love is stolen moments: a wink in the bathroom mirror while they shave and she brushes her hair. A tender touch out of nowhere — a finger tracing a neck, a shoulder grazing a hip. A kiss given for no reason, with no expectation, simply because the other is there, alive, present — and that fact alone is a miracle.
Making love is listening. Truly listening. Asking, “How was your night?” and waiting for the answer, even if it’s about forgotten dreams or restless sleep. It’s taking time, before the day pulls us apart, to really look at each other — as if reuniting after a long absence. To talk without urgency, without distraction, as if the world could wait.
Making love is walking them to the door in the morning and saying, “Have a beautiful day,” not out of habit, but as a blessing. It’s watching them from the window until they disappear around the corner, waving — just a small hand gesture — like an invisible thread stretched between two hearts.
Making love is a surprise call in the middle of the afternoon. Not for anything urgent. Not to talk about dinner. Just to say: “I was thinking of you.” Or nothing at all. Just to hear their voice — like listening to a familiar breath, a private melody.
Making love is surprising them. Leaving a flower for no reason, writing a sweet note on the mirror, slipping a love letter into their coat pocket. It’s giving without counting, loving without demanding. Because real love doesn’t seek to receive — it seeks simply to exist.
Making love is also knowing when to step back. Letting the other breathe, grow, live for themselves. Loving without suffocating, without clinging. Saying: “Go. Live your life.” While knowing, deep down, that your heart will always beat in rhythm with theirs. Understanding that love isn’t measured in kilometers, but in soulbeats. That it can cross distances, silences, absences — because it’s made of what can’t be seen, only felt.
Sometimes, making love is simply closing your eyes and thinking of them. For a second. A minute. A breath. And feeling, in your chest, that soft warmth, that invisible presence — like a silent prayer sent into the universe.
Making love is also the return. In the evening. The look that searches for the other in the hallway. The embrace that says: “You’ve been missed.” The simple questions: “How was your day? Tell me everything.” Not out of politeness, but to reconnect, to find each other again, to be seen.
Because making love isn’t just an act. It’s a state of being. A way of existing together, even in silence. A constant presence, made of glances, gestures, patience, tenderness. It’s a slow, daily, infinite alchemy.
Making love isn’t first body to body. It’s soul to soul. And when the bodies finally meet, it’s only the echo, the reflection, the consecration of everything that’s been said — without words — since morning.
