Now all i wanna do is give you truth; to give it all to you so you can grab it and compose your own reality with it, to do as you please. Love is me desiring for you to make me a part of it all. Give a color to each detail and spread them as you go, making me a part of everything you do. But love is letting you be whatever you ought to be.
Love is coming to terms with the fact that love itself doesn’t perish, it transmutes. And each time will flourish into something lovelier than before; like a warm morning sun kissing your eyelids after days of rain and dark clouds causing turmoils in the sky. Love is the thoughts of you flowing through me, invading the rooms I step into, staining the words I say, holding onto my skin like scars; and I wear those proudly every day. They wait in peace, running quietly as inked blood through my veins. With every heartbeat I manage to keep them alive and well, until the next time I get the chance to wake them up, and let them dance freely under the moonlight.
Love is my heart swelling with your big eyes and bright smile. Love is you watching me fall asleep, safe and sound next to you, irradiating warmth. And things are good when we synchronize our selves; our eyes speak to one another in tongues we've never heard before, they communicate and permeate and penetrate one another, making it hard for gravity to work how it should.
And love is you keeping something you found and thought it was mine, then fly it with you to give it back. Love is also learning it wasn't mine. And it’s all well. You are, and I am too; and luck seems to hunt us whenever we move. And you move me when you move like that, owning every last one of my sinful thoughts.
And love, above all those, is knowing everything in-between you and me, the last time and the next, is okay. Because love is home.