Love is stories that will never be told; it’s personal.
Love is flirting outrageously and still remembering that the person at your side is not obligated to do anything, It’s respect.
Love is an imperfection in yourself not bothering you, its acceptance.
Love is passing up an opportunity because the time isn’t right yet, It’s patience.
Love is a back massage that starts above the hairline and ends around the insoles, its exploration.
Love does not have to say, “let’s make love,” because you know what the other person wants, it understands.
Love is being given an honest chance to say no when you thought you were committed, its consideration.
Love is both of you remembering protection, its responsibility.
Love is saying the perfect phrase to make a solemn embrace dissolve into giggles; it’s humor.
Love is being told, “stop and I’ll kill you.” Its desire.
Love is reviewing the damage to your living room and realizing personal effects are strewn in a clockwise pattern from the front door the to a bedroom; it’s abandonment.
Love is seeing what your love really looks like for the first time, it’s truth.
Love is knowing what time it is and not caring, it’s joy.
Love is the arms around you tightening their embrace; it’s ecstasy.
Love is seeing a new side of a person you thought you knew; it’s renewal.
Love is telling a person if you have to leave, you will let them sleep, and being told they would rather be woken, its tenderness.
Love is waking up to find the subject of the dream you were having asleep on your shoulder; it’s where fantasy meets reality.
Love is being there to wake your lover slowly; it’s sensuousness.
Love belatedly knows why you bothered to buy a queen-sized bed three years ago; it’s practicality.
Love is two people only taking up a third of a queen-sized bed, its closeness.
Love knows you gave the extra set of keys to your apartment to the right person, its trust.
Love is saying good-bye and knowing you will be back by mutual consent, its faith.
Love is stretching your arms and discovering the real meaning of the word “sore” it’s a lesson in human frailty.
Love is sitting at the window, looking out and remembering who you were with the night before, it’s reflection.
Love is hearing the weather forecast for a winter storm and wishing you could spend it in bed with your lover; it’s loneliness.
Love is when there are a million things, you want to say to someone, but when they look, you in the eyes and hold you in their arms, nothing in life matters other than being with that person at that moment.
