There is justice in love. There is you respect me, I respect you. There are open waves of communication and light, airy energy. Oh I thought it was so many things before but no, no love is none of those things…but love tries to be.

Love is my type. Love is talking about him over and over to my girlfriends but claiming still he is not worthy. Love is when I fall on my face and need him to pick me up. Love is that guy in the corner dusting croissant crumbs from his shirt. But a wedding ring shines on his hand so love is him, but not for me.

Love is us dancing.

Love is us dancing when no one else is dancing. Love is you spinning me and me dipping you. Love is me being made a fool. Love is you with your eyes on me all night.

Love is you having more self-control than I do and me trying to siphon it through your mouth.

Love is us both having adorable cats, yours fuzzy, mine fat, and me day-dreaming of us all living together.

Love is the many many months I’ve put into this relationship, whether I wanted to or not.

Love is us having the same (excellent) taste in music.

Love is me kicking and screaming.

Love is you playing guitar.

Love is me thinking I’m better than you only you realize you are a much better man than I am.

Love is writing so hard about you I run out of paper.

Love is knowing I could write all night long about love.

Which I know nothing about.

 Love is death.

 Love is birth.

 Love escapes.

  Love is  trapped

  just outside my door.