Love is like my sister, Janae. She is springtime tulips and pastel colors. She is sun rays beaming through windows where dust particles dance and kiss in the light. She is tender kissing scenes on TV, and then afterward practicing on soft pillows at night. She is the warm space between Mama and Papi while they sleep and the bills are paid and the fridge is full. She is made of honey and sugar and summer fruits oozing gooey sweetness and catching bees and flies. Buzzing. Annoying. Like the ones in that house across the street.
