What is love, that we so easily speak, say so often?
We love pizza; we love to read; we love the lilac scent of summer-sweet air; we love the pit-patting of the rain on the roof. I must confess, I do enjoy all these things.
But none engender that twingey, semi-queasy feeling in my stomach, originating from the realization that you have touched something deep inside, changed me somehow; and that I would miss you, ache for you, if you were no longer here;
that wonder I feel at the slide of your hair-roughened skin against mine;
the comfortable, warm blanket feeling that cocoons me hearing your
sleep-snuffling breath as you lay beside me
the joy that suffuses me upon seeing your eyes lit with laughter;
the awe I feel when I notice the fire in your eyes, and recognize
the greed in your touch, the loving that flames and burns.
This, then, is what I love and the gift you gave to me.