LOVE?

A few weeks ago, I was lying next to my girlfriend. We had gone away for the weekend and were staying by the ocean. We had brought friends with us, too. We had crammed eight people into an Airbnb meant for four, so even though my girlfriend and I had scored the biggest bed, we had to relinquish some of our blankets to our friends sleeping on couches and platonically sharing beds.

I was cold all night and had to resort to using her body for warmth. In the wee hours of the morning, she turned to face me, and as we embraced, I had the oddest sensation. At the point where our bodies met, it felt as though I had been looking through a kaleidoscope that had just, for the first time, resolved itself. I could see. I thought—maybe Plato had a point.

Over the next few weeks, I tried to pay close attention to myself in those moments near sleep, when I was lying next to her—usually on the fringes of sleep for one or both of us. One recent weekend, I had been ill again. I was mostly awake, and she was mostly asleep. Lying there in the dark, I tried to search my feelings.

I thought to myself: yes, our bodies did feel inexplicably connected—but not only that. I felt like I could sense the cord binding our souls together at that moment. And not only that—I tried to tug on the cord, and I could see them. Or at least, my mind could.

I could feel the shape of my soul. It was like a transparent balloon with powdered sugar sprinkled on top.

What if this is what love is?
A medium that lets us see our own soul—and how it bumps into other souls.
A fluid in which we slide undeveloped photos, allowing us to gaze upon their once-shrouded forms.
Bichromatic fingerprint powder brushed onto surfaces to reveal the hidden imprints of our desires—the ones we illicitly grasp for.

Is love the only lens that, when you peer into a kaleidoscope, you don’t see swirling colors and shapes—but instead, you clearly glimpse your soul?